The Bloodiest Place on Earth
by Professor R.J Lupin1
Summary: Hestia Olympia, Victor of the 146th Hunger Games, overhears the Head Gamemaker talking about this year's arena. Now certain that 2 will get its long deserved next Victory, Hestia sits down to strategize. That's when she realizes she has no idea what a Disneyland is. SYOT closed.
1. The One Who Seethes

_Hestia Olympia, 25_

_Victor of the 146__Th__ Annual Hunger Games, _

Hestia is _pissed_, to say the least.

Sixth place hurts. Fifth place _hurts_. Third place _fucking burns_.

Here Hestia had sat a little less than a week ago, pulling for her girl, Ilyanna. It had been the Career girls, from 1, 2 and 4 who were in the Final Three. Ilyanna was up against a twelve-year-old rebel idiot and Stella Winters, who was only noticed because of her relation to the last Quell. No one would have cared if Ariella hadn't already perished in the Games. She would have been just as forgettable as Marina was the year before. At least that turned out to be useful knowledge to Hestia; the next time she's helping to choose volunteer, she'll keep that in mind.

Neapolitan and Peridot had been seated beside her, with as little hope in their hearts as they should have had. Divinity Faust is insane—there is no bias when Hestia says that—and yet, now Vin stands on the other side of the room, her head held high and her eyes aloof. She talks with some Capitol man who is over a foot taller than—Vin can't be more than five foot one in heels, yet somehow she won the Hunger Games. It's completely unfathomable to Hestia. Vin is a rebel, and the Games are supposed to be rigged _against_ rebels. Just look at what happened the Hydra Bekkar!

Hestia stares back at the girl, her hands clenching around the drink in her hands. Everything about Vin's presence in her precious Capitol makes her blood boil. Vin ruined everything, and she's not even a proper Victor. Hestia was always under the impression that the Gamemakers killed those who were too crazy, too un-suited for the life of a Victor. Yet Vin stands as a testament that not even the Gamemakers can get in the way of someone like her.

It has been far too long since District 2 earned a new Victor. Seven years since Hestia won. Seven, long, Victor-less years. And to make everything even better, both 1 and 4 have gained a new Victor since the year Hestia won. Maybe Arthur and Vin didn't do it on purpose, but it sure feels like they won just to spite Hestia.

Shaking her head, Hestia knocks back her drink, hissing in anger at the taste that burns its way down her throat. It's not a pleasant one. Hestia kicks herself as she searches for an Avox to give her glass to. She should know not to drink whatever is handed to her. There was a Victor from 2 who was poisoned by an angry Capitolite a few decades ago, wasn't there? Hestia likes to think she is important enough for someone to poison to death. But obviously, if Hestia was poisoned to death, she would no longer be around to push her tributes home. And Hestia can't bare to die as the only Victor from 2 to never mentor someone else out of that arena.

At last, Hestia spots a young, blond Avox standing at a table which Macy Barker is seated at. She groans internally at the prospect of having to speak to an asshole like Macy Barker, but seeing as there are no other Avoxes nearby, Hestia is stuck. She shakes her head and stalks across the room toward them, resigned to her unfortunate fate.

"Here," she says, shoving her empty glass into the blonds Avox's hands.

"What do you expect him to do with that?" Macy snaps.

"Get rid of it," Hestia answers curtly. "Tell whoever supplied drinks for this hellhole that they picked terrible options?"

Macy glares at her. "Have you ever heard a bartender? There's one right over there who would gladly explain his job to you."

"You are an absolute ass," Hestia replies. Does she sound immature? Yeah. Does it look like she's care? No.

"Come on, Shallow," Macy says, grabbing the Avox's hand and walking away. "Let's go somewhere that doesn't involve contact with people the likes of Hestia. I don't feel like being verbally abused today."

"Run away," Hestia mutters. "Because you can't think of a good comeback. Great. Real mature."

"Can you just shut the fuck up for once in your goddamn life? I'm fourteen-years-old; how much maturity can you expect from me?" Macy snaps, turning back around to face her and letting go of the Avox's hand.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Hestia snarks, crossing her arms across her chest. She looks like a child and Hestia knows it, but again, she doesn't care. She's never cared a day in her life, and she's not about to start for someone like Macy Barker.

"My mother is dead." Macy turns back around, muttering under her breath, and disappears through the crowd with her Avox friend. Hestia notices her empty glass left on Macy's vacated table and clenches her teeth in anger. She snatches up the glass and stalks after them, muttering swear words as she goes. She tells a couple of little Capitol kids to fuck off when they come to ask her for her autograph. Normally, Hestia would love to autograph something for them, but right now? Right now, Hestia is far too busy being pissed to do anything _kind_ for people. Besides, those kids didn't look like they had anything to pay her with, anyway.

Hestia follows Macy and the blond Avox out of the ballroom and into the hallway. Macy's singsong voice drifts back to her through the hallways, echoing off the ceiling and walls. The Avox is, obviously, silent. Hestia firmly believes that every Avox deserves what they got, no matter what they did. And that includes this kid, whatever he did.

"And seeing as I'm retiring this year…"

The words catch Hestia's attention, the empty glass in her hand forgotten and Macy and her Avox obsolete in Hestia's mind. She steps towards the double doors—the doors to President Purdue's office, she might add—as someone answers.

"What? Silas, you can't just—leave!"

"With all due respect, Madame President, my wife is pregnant," Silas says. _Oh, _Hestia thinks, almost turning and walking back to the party. _Silas Euphemia. That jackass who seems to rig the Games in the others' favors. _She has no interest in whatever Silas has to tell Graciela Purdue, but his next words piques her attention again. "I have come to discuss the arena for this year's Games. I plan to make it something new, seeing as this will be my last year as the Head Gamemaker."

"Who will replace you?" Purdue asks, completely disregarding the statement about the arena, much to Hestia's dismay. "Aristotle, perhaps? Or maybe Everess?"

"I haven't decided yet," Silas says, sounding slightly impatient. _You and me both,_ Hestia thinks, ignoring the fact that she just agreed with Silas Euphemia. Two more different people have never graced Panem. "But, Graciela…I don't suppose you've ever heard of Disneyland, have you?"

"Disneyland?" Purdue repeats. "No, I'm afraid not."

"It was a popular theme park from long before the Dark Days and well…recently, a team recovered the plans for it. We plan to rebuild it, in all its glory, to use as this year's arena," Silas says proudly. Hestia imagines the man puffing out his chest like a penguin. Silas was already slightly portly; he would make a lovely penguin. He'd be much better at that than he'd be at being Head Gamemaker. You don't have to do anything to be a penguin. "The rides will function. It will be exactly like it was in its heyday."

"That sounds wonderful, Silas," Purdue agrees, probably nodding and caressing one of her stupid cats. They were always wandering around the Presidential Mansion. "Do you need a go ahead from me?"

"Yes," Silas answers. "That's why I came here, so…?"

"It's fine with me," Purdue says. "I look forward to seeing the finished product."

"Thank you, Madame President," Silas replies. "Have a good day."

"A good day to you as well, Silas."

The doors to Purdue's office start to open, and Hestia throws herself around the corner, praying Silas will walk the other way. When he starts toward the turn, Hestia carefully changes her position to look as if she is simply leaning against the wall. Silas nods a greeting to her, which she doesn't return. It's common knowledge that Hestia hates him. It would be more conspicuous if Hestia spoke to him like a regular human being.

As soon as Silas is gone, Hestia heads back to the party and finds Will. Thank Panem she managed to convince Varen to stay home this year—she would have committed murder if Will hadn't agreed to come in his place.

She finds him at the bar, talking to a woman who appears to be a few years younger than him. Hestia grabs Will's sleeve and tugs him to his feet, making him spill his drink all over his shirt. "Hestia!" Will exclaims. "What—?"

"I have news," Hestia says, her voice spiking excitedly as she speaks. "I know what next year's arena is."

"Oh, do you now," Will says, shaking his head and setting his now-empty glass on the table. It's clearly not a question; Hestia knows he doesn't believe her, but at the current moment, she's too excited about this development to care. "Enlighten me."

"It's Disneyland," Hestia declares.

"…what?" Will asks, looking at her as if she just contracted a very deadly disease. "It's _what_ now?"

"Disneyland," Hestia repeats, her voice faltering. "Oh." She drops her arms to her sides and purses her lips. _What is Disneyland, again? A theme park! What's a theme park, again? _Hestia mulls over the situation for a moment, staring at Will's soggy shirt

"Yeah. So you _don't_ what the arena is, then?" Will asks.

"No, I guess not," Hestia says. "Not unless you know what a 'theme park'."

"Never heard of it," Will answers. "Thanks for making me spill my drink, by the way. Now I have to buy a new shirt."

"Do I look like I give a fuck right now?" Hestia growls. "I thought I had something! I thought we had Victory in the bag! Ugh." She shakes her head, slamming her glass down on the bar top. "I'm going back to the Tribute Center. If you need me, don't bother calling, I'm not going to answer."

"Have fun," Will says sarcastically, turning back to the woman he was talking to before. Hestia shakes her head at him, considering flipping him off. So what if she's immature? Hestia still just…really doesn't care.

**A/N: Hey! New SYOT! Third time around, let's go! Who's excited? I'm excited! I wrote this in like an hour! It probably sucks but I'm just too excited to get this third one going!**

**1\. Thoughts on Hestia?**

**2\. Thoughts on Will?**

**3\. Thoughts on the arena?**

**4\. Thoughts on Macy?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: who was the Avox with Macy?**

**My Answer: well, obviously I know, and anyone who has read TYAU would know too. And yeah, his name is Shallow, but there's obviously more to it than that. **

**Okay, okay, I'm sure you're wondering what's up with this one this time around. First off, it's not first come, first-served. I'll hopefully announce the close date next chapter. I want to figure out how many submissions I'll probably get before I make a decision. **

**Here is the google form for it (it's also on my profile, along with all the rules): **** pcXAchWusAHAu BrXA (Remove the spaces).**

**It'll be a bit before we check in with Arthur for our next prologue, since I've got some epilogues to write for DAH, but I hope to see you here again and that you'll consider submitting!**

**-Amanda**


	2. The One Who Lives

_Macy Barker, 15_

_Victor of the 150__th__ Annual Hunger Games_

_(Seven Months Before the Reapings)_

The knock at the door startles Macy from her position on the benchtop, making her hand slip and the paintbrush to fall to the counter. She grimaces at the splatter of red paint like blood ribboning across the marble countertop and pulls her eyes away from it. _Three years, it's been_, she thinks as she hops to her feet, running to answer the door. _Three years, and I can still hardly handle the color red. _She shakes her head. _That's just sad. _

When she slides across the slippery hardwood floors to open the front door, she pauses for a moment. It's Sprucen's birthday. And Macy is only half-finished with his gift.

It has become a bit of tradition in the past few years for Macy to give everyone around her a coffee mug for any holiday. Capitolmas? Coffee mugs. Birthdays? Coffee mugs. Baby showers? Coffee mugs. Funerals, weddings, random days when Macy feels like throwing ceramics at people? Coffee mugs.

And since this is Sprucen's first birthday since they've officially been a 'thing', Macy wants to do something special for him. Instead of going into town to the print shop and getting some snarky comment painted onto a mug, she wants to do herself. Obviously that has not worked out very well for her. The mug sits half-finished on the countertop, surrounded by a splatter of red paint that she had been using to paint a heart.

So…yeah, maybe she's totally head-over-heels for Sprucen. He's just…just…just so _funny_, and _cute_, and _nice_ and…did she mention _funny_? The way he ducks his head when that adorable little laugh comes out of his throat and the way he says Macy's name and the way he can comfort her when no one else can…well, what else do you expect her to do?

Macy takes a deep breath and pulls open the door. "Hi, Sprucen!" she exclaims, grinning from ear-to-ear. Everything seems brighter since she met Sprucen. Macy has never been one for superstition, and certainly doesn't believe in love at first sight. But she's _allowed_ to be in love with Sprucen by this point; they met over a year ago! That's _fine_.

"Hey, Macy!" Sprucen replies, his voice filled with matching enthusiasm. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yep," Macy declares, glancing behind her into the kitchen, where she can see the mug sitting on the table. "Hey, so…I _do_ have a present for you but it's not exactly _finished_ yet…" She smiles lopsidedly and shrugs as if to say _what can you do? _

"That's fine, Mace," Sprucen says, reaching over the threshold and taking Macy's hand. She exhales and shuts her eyes for a moment. _See, this? This is what you lived for, Macy. This is what you got out that arena for! _

It feels good. It feels good to have someone who loves her as Macy, not as the girl from the Quarter Quell. Cypress, Larken and Holland are nice and everything…if not a little overbearing sometimes…but Sprucen is different. For one thing, he is Macy's age. The only other person she knows that is her age is Shallow, and it's not like she can see him every other day if she feels like it. He's…a little tied up. And although President Purdue gives her more freedom to hang around Shallow when Macy goes to the Capitol, his service is still bound. He's still stuck as an Avox for the foreseeable future.

As the pair walk hand-in-hand down the path to the road out of the Victors' Village, Sprucen squeezes Macy's hand and says, "Y'know, sometimes I worry about you all alone in that big house."

Macy shrugs. "I've managed it just fine for three years." Her eyes dart toward the ground for a moment before she lifts her head and levels it with Sprucen's. "And if I ever get lonely, I can always go see Larken or Cypress." _Holland isn't exactly the best conversationalist, _Macy thinks. _And Mabel…_the train of thought crashes and burns as Macy's shoulders slump. Two months ago, Mabel Cypress, the Victor of the Ninetieth Hunger Games at twelve-years-old passed away. Her health had been ailing for ages, but it was still a shock to Macy's system, and remains that way to this day. She never knew Mabel very well, but is stands as another reminder that Macy's life is not endless. She almost lost it three years, but now she refuses to waste a moment of it. "So," she says brightly. "What do you think I got you?"

"Definitely not a coffee mug," Sprucen jokes, gently nudging Macy's shoulder with his own. "You'd never get anyone a coffee mug."

"No, of course not. If you really want to know, it's an elephant," Macy teases in response.

"Do they have those in the Capitol?" he asks.

"Oh," breathes Macy, her face flushing slightly. "No. I've only seen pictures of them, but I don't think you'd like them. They're big, and can crush people easily."

"Yeah, you're right," says Sprucen. "So…I assume you know where you're going, or are we just going to wander until we starve to death?"

"Potentially, a little of both," Macy says mischievously as she leads Sprucen off the main path. They walk along a thin trail through the quickly thickening trees in silence for a few moments before Macy takes another sharp turn. The dense canopy of trees overhead practically blots out the sun, making only little shafts of light reach the ground. Macy looks around, breathing in the fresh smell of the forest. The woods around the Victors' Village remain untouched by the lumberjacks of 7—at least, for now. Macy is sure that eventually they will all be gone and the people of 7 will be left without any lumber to provide. She can only she is long gone by that point.

After a few moments, the path widens into a clearing. Macy bounds forward excitedly, listening to the faint whirring which comes from her prosthetic legs when she moves too fast. They've only overheated on her once—after she tried to help Larken train to run a half-marathon by running it too—which left her collapsed on the side of the road for half an hour before Larken realized what had happened. That was a not a memory Macy liked to revisit, but it is much more humorous than many of her less-desirable memories.

In the center of the clearing is a small, ornate metal table and two chairs. They came from Mabel's backyard, and they are so beautiful that Macy couldn't bear to get rid of them. And now here they reside in a mossy clearing where the sun peeks through the canopy of trees overhead, the perfect place for a quiet birthday lunch.

Only now does Macy realize she left the picnic basket at home. She smacks herself in the forehead and turns to Sprucen. "I guess we can't have lunch…" she mumbles, covering her face with her hands. She looks up and meets Sprucen's eyes. They're such a pretty shade of hazel. "I left the picnic basket at my house. I'm sorry, Sprucen."

"Oh, don't worry about that, Mace!" Sprucen exclaims, pulling Macy into a side-hug. "I get to spend the afternoon with you, in somewhere beautiful! I could care less about having food!"

Macy smiles and blushes. She ducks her head and snuggles closer to Sprucen's side. "You really are an optimist, you know that?"

"Oh, I know. That's all anyone at school ever tells me."

_School_, Macy muses. _I wonder what it's like to still have to go to that. _Victors haven't been required to go to school for decades; what's the point? As long as they can read, write and do basic math, that's really all they'll need to know. Macy told herself shortly after she won that she'd go back next year. She said the same thing a year later. And still she has yet to return to school. It's been three years and she still feels immensely unprepared to integrate back into that particular part of Panem. Everything has been different since she came back; everyone knows that. But they don't know just how difficult it was for Macy to find some semblance of normal again, and she still feels as if she hasn't achieved that.

"Do you like the setup, though?" she asks curiously, looking up at her boyfriend's face. His tan skin is illuminated beautifully by a shaft of light that fought its way to the forest floor, making him even more attractive that he usually is. But then again, he's always attractive to Macy. Maybe that's just what happens when someone comes along to fix your life. You see them as an angel. That's what Sprucen is to Macy; her savior. She had been trapped in a depressive funk for so long she doubted she'd ever get out of it, and then Sprucen marched into her life and pulled her out of a deep, dark hole. She still feels like she owes something to Sprucen, to repay him for everything he has done for her, but Sprucen is not an easy person to get gifts for. He's always been far too humble.

"Of course I do," Sprucen says sincerely, resting his chin on Macy's forehead. "It's beautiful, Mace. Almost as beautiful as you are."

"Please," laughs Macy, grinning. "as if. I'm nothing special, and you know it."

Sprucen laughs his musical laugh, ducking his head like Macy so adores. "Now that's just not true. But you're entitled to your opinion, even if it's wrong."

Macy looks up at Sprucen's face again, her eyes alight with life. It's different from the way she looked when she came out of the arena; face drawn, body wracked with hunger, eyes dulled by everything she had seen. Daniella told her three years that one day she'd find her peace, and in this moment, Macy wonders if this is what she meant. This is peace. At least, this is peace to Macy.

**A/N: So yeah Macy isn't Arthur. But I need to bite the bullet and write epilogues from DAH before I check in with him, so we get to see Macy a chapter early! This whole chapter came to me as I was writing it, and I really was just writing it so Macy could be happy for once in her life. What can I say, I show my love for characters by making them suffer…**

**1\. Who is better: Macy or Sprucen?**

**2\. Thoughts on Sprucen?**

**3\. Is Macy's thing with coffee mugs weird?**

**4\. How will Macy hold up with another round of tributes to mentor this year?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: (this question is only going to make sense if you've read both TYAU and DAH) Who do you prefer: Cypress or Larken?**

**My answer: in terms of being a good mentor, Cypress. In terms of an interesting character and being fun to write, Larken. **

**I know I said I'd have a close date, but I haven't decided on that yet. Eventually. I promise. **

**-Amanda**


	3. The One Who Runs

_Divinity 'Vin' Faust, 13_

_Victor of the 152__nd__ Annual Hunger Games_

_(Three months before the Reapings)_

Vin is used to being alone.

(That doesn't make being alone any easier).

It has been years since she's seen her parents. After all, they are dead. Executed, if she remembers correctly. Hung in the town square for 'treasonous activities'. Vin has never heard more bullshit in her entire life.

Even as she sits here now, she knows it's bullshit. But Vin is rational, if she says so herself, and she would rather bide her time instead of just throwing herself into a fight she could never win. She never has been one for confrontation.

Her house in the Victors' Village is empty beyond belief. If Vin had it her way, she would not even live in this disgusting house (which used to belong to Crown Canters, one of history's greatest Capitol loyalists), but seeing as Panemian law dictates that all Victors will reside in the house provided for them, Vin is, unfortunately, stuck. Well, if Vin had it her way, she would not be a Victor, the Hunger Games wouldn't exist, and the Capitol would still be smoking.

She haunts this house like a ghost. She has no friends. She has no family. The rebel group that she had grown up kicked her out. The other Victors from 1 shun her. Those stupid 'factions' that Peridot was always talking about (before Vin had threatened to kill her in her sleep if she ever came to Vin's door again)…well, Vin has created a faction for herself. She is more untouchable than the Untouchable, more hated than Money, more ignored than Jacinth and Brilliant.

And, well, Vin doesn't really mind.

Although sometimes it would be nice to have someone to talk to, Vin doesn't really mind the isolation.

(At least that's what she convinced herself of).

Suddenly Vin shoots to her feet, looking around the empty (empty, empty, empty) living room of her house. (She can't think of it as her home. It's not her home and it never will be). She crosses the room and grabs her old tennis shoes, jamming them onto her feet. Without bothering to tie the laces, Vin yanks open the door and starts to run down the street.

Vin is no stranger to running. She runs from her problems. She runs from the bodies in the square. She runs from the penance the Capitol will never receive. She runs from her endless dreams of a better future that she knows she will never achieve. She runs from the knowledge that nothing will ever change, at least not in her lifetime. She runs from the Hunger Games. She runs from the other Victors around her, from the memories of her own Games, from the Capitol itself. She runs and she runs and she runs, and she wonders what would happen if she never stopped.

Her feet pound against the ground, a steady rhythm which echoes through Vin's head as she runs. She doesn't want to stop running. She wants to run until she reaches oblivion, until she can stop existing, until she reaches a place better than Panem. She wishes the world would stop, just for a moment, so she could just sit and exist and no one would bother her. If time could freeze for just a moment, even a millisecond, Vin would be happy. Even if that happiness only lasts a moment, Vin knows it would be worth it. A few seconds of contentment would be enough.

Vin runs from her problems. She runs and she runs and she runs, yet they will always catch up with her.

Eventually Vin runs into town, past the rest of the residents of District 1 (the normal people, the unassuming people, the mindless, blinded-by-Capitol-propaganda people) and toward Court Academy. She passes trainees, her eyes passing over their faces without really seeing them. Each face is the same as the last—pale skin, blond hair, blue or green eyes, no difference, everyone is the same, the same, the same—and she sees no reason to take note of them. They are just as blind as the other residents of District 1, if not more so. They believe that the Hunger Games are good, are just, and a perfectly acceptable punishment.

Court disappears behind her as her chest heaves, but she doesn't stop. Vin has never done anything right in her entire life; she got herself kicked out of the only real family she has ever known. She got herself arrested and sent into the Hunger Games. She never once completed a mission as a member of Un Meilleur Avenir. She couldn't die like she was supposed to. She deserves her pain. She deserves to feel so out of breath, to feel some semblance of the pain all the people of Panem feel each day, that Vin can do nothing to fix. Being a Victor does not put you above the law, and it is even less so for Vin.

She sucks in breath sharply, over and over again as if in ragtime, creating a sick beat for herself in her head. _Breathe, step, breathe, step, breathe, step, breathe, step, breathe, step, breathe, step._

The words of a certain long dead Victor come to mind as she runs. _The Hunger Games don't have to rule your life_. Maybe if Vin had breath to spare, she would scoff at the thought. The Hunger Games don't rule her life. They never have, even when she fought in them. No, Vin rules her own life. It just isn't under her control most of the time. She herself does not sit in the Captain's chair. No, Vin sits as the Captain's deckhand. She has no say in her thoughts, in her actions, in what she says. It's a constant struggle for control, and Vin lost that fight long ago.

Vin makes a loop through the golden forest, finally reaching the long, straight road that leads back to the Victors' Village. She slows her pace as she reaches the Village, looking around at the eerily quiet houses. For a place inhabited by so many people, it feels as if Vin is alone in this place. She pauses for a moment, staring at the sidewalk.

"Hey, Vin! Are you okay?"

Her head whips up, looking around for the source of the voice. Finally she locates him, standing in the doorway of his house with the door half open, his two-year-old daughter on his waist. "Fuck off, Cattler."

Cattler raises his eyebrows, bouncing his daughter up and down. "You look tired. Have you been running or something?"

"I said fuck off."

"I'll call Alexandrite. I'll call _Peridot_."

"I said fuck off!"

Vin shakes her head angrily and stomps into her house, slamming the door as Cattler keeps staring at her and bouncing his daughter. "I hate that fucking bitch," Vin mutters, stalking up the stairs. "Younger brother died, didn't give a fuck. No one gives a fuck. None of these Victors give a single fuck about their tributes until they win. Then we're all they care about, but until we kill enough people to be validated by them, they're not going to give a flying fuck!" Fuming, she picks up a vase and throws it at the wall, satisfied when it shatters and slides down the wall in a million pieces.

Some people handle their demons by trying to forget, or by hiding. Vin handles her demons by pushing away those who attempt to help her, by running from her problems until they can no longer catch up (which will never happen, they will follow her until the end of time and she can never escape the demons that hide in the darkest corners of her mind), by turning to violence to get those who persist to leave. Her defense is that she is a loner, that she doesn't mind the isolation, but Vin has been abandoned by every important person in her entire life. Her comrades in Un Meilleur Avenir left her in the dust. Her parents were executed for being irrational. Her best friend, a twelve-year-old girl from District 11 who was her only ally in her Games, died.

And now Vin is alone, and she can't risk getting close to someone else.

After all, they will only leave her.

Just like everyone else.

So, yeah, Vin is fucked in the head, and she knows it. The more she tells herself that it's fine, that she's handling it, that she's _fine_. She's _fine_.

Vin is fine. Thanks for asking. She doesn't need anyone. She can _handle_ it. She has been handling it for years. No one gives a shit about her, and she doesn't _care_.

At least that's what she tells herself. Maybe if she says it enough, it will suddenly become true and Vin can sort through all of the shit in her head. But it's not looking good. Not for her, not for anyone.

She wants liberation for the people of the Districts. It's all she's wanted since she could walk. But first, she has to fix herself before she can fix Panem. And that's a long, lonely road to tread, and for all she knows, it will never lead anywhere, anyway.

**A/N: Wow! Vin is not okay! Vin has never been okay though since it's more okay! At least that's what she thinks!**

**1\. Is Vin justified in her hatred of the Capitol?**

**2\. Will she ever get what she dreams of?**

**3\. Do you like Vin?**

**4\. Is she crazy?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: I don't know. I'm out of random questions. **

**-Amanda**


	4. The One Who Looks

_Arthur Singlewave, 18_

_Victor of the 151__st__ Annual Hunger Games_

_(Five weeks before the Reapings)_

If the Capitol ever needs a new way to torture their enemies, Arthur would recommend having them sit for prolonged periods with a cat on their lap. Not because cats themselves are problematic, but because Toaster's tail keeps brushing against Arthur's flesh hand every few seconds. It's enough to make a man with much more mental stability than Arthur go insane.

"Mew," Toaster purrs, stretching out across Arthur's lap. She lets out a sigh of contentment, her back paws brushing against Arthur's stomach. "Meeeew."

Arthur sighs, wishing he could get up but not wanting to disturb Toaster. He had only gotten her a few weeks ago, and this is the first time she willingly laid down in Arthur's lap. She had been standoffish toward Arthur at best before.

She, of course, has always loved Copper. Everyone loves Copper. _Arthur_ loves Copper. And the fact that Copper found Toaster on the street couldn't have hurt. She had clung to him when he brought her into the shelter, and hadn't let go since. That's the main reason they even ended up with her.

Arthur certainly is not complaining. He's never going to complain about having another cat around the house. Seeing as he does next to nothing with his time still alive except sit around and stare off into space, having a third cat to hang out with is never going to be a problem. Besides, Candlestick spends all her time outside, anyway. Coat Hanger is still a completely indoor cat—mainly because of his missing leg—but Arthur is never going to say he doesn't want another cat. Unless he already had around seven. Then that might be a few too many cats. He doesn't know how many inanimate objects he can think of to name cats after.

Toaster meows again and stands up, stretching her back as she hops off of Arthur's lap. Arthur watches her disappear around the corner and up the stairs, and decides he no longer has an excuse to keep sitting here. He gets to his feet, following Toaster's path up the stairs. Instead of finding someone to hide and sleep like Toaster likely is doing, Arthur walks into the bathroom.

_Don't look in the mirror. Don't look in the mirror. Don't look in the mirror. Just. Don't. Look. Whatever you'll see is not what you want to see. _

With his eyes shut tight, Arthur kneels down and opens up the cabinet below the bathroom sink, digging around in search of those sleeping pills Copper had got. He doesn't care if he sleeps for the next twelve hours. He just doesn't want to exist right now.

At last he locates the bottle and stands up. His eyes catch on his reflection.

Arthur no longer recognizes the face he sees in the mirror. He hasn't recognized it for two years. He often finds himself wondering if no one else recognizes it either. Maybe that's why Elva refuses to speak to him anymore. Maybe that's why Jackly followed her. Maybe that's the reason Arthur hides away in his house all day. Maybe he's just too afraid to face the rest of the world. Maybe it's just because no one knows who Arthur is anymore.

Maybe it's because Arthur doesn't know who Arthur is anymore.

He looks in the mirror for a moment and sees his own lifeless eyes staring back at him. He misses the way his eyes used to look; so bright, so full of life. So full of _hope_.

Those twelve days in the arena destroyed him. Arthur knows that. He has accepted that.

But he's _fine_.

Copper asks him, every day, if he's okay.

Arthur. Is. Fine.

Okay, maybe not _totally_ fine, but he can deal with it on his own. No one wants to know what goes on inside his head. His head is a mess of a place, a _terrifying_ mess of a place. Copper asks him to let him in, but Arthur knows that Copper has no clue what Arthur thinks about. He doesn't want to be let in, not if he knew what Arthur could tell him.

Not that Arthur ever _would_ talk about it. He doesn't need help. Not from anyone. It's been two years, damnit, he's _fine_! He's fixing himself.

Oftentimes he wonders if he'll ever be at peace with the world, or if this cycle of self-loathing will continue until the day he dies. He feels as if he has no purpose. For most of his childhood, his goal was to win the Hunger Games. Eventually, he decided that wasn't going to work out, yet here he is. Standing in a bathroom in the Victors' Village, staring at his own face with little recognition in his deadened eyes.

Recruits from Faustus run through the Victors' Village most mornings. Arthur sees them from his front window, watches them laugh and talk and jog, and he wonders if they know what they've signed up for. He may be mentoring one of those trainees in a few weeks.

Those trainees have no idea what they're in for. They have no idea what kind of demons will follow them from the arena on the off chance that they manage to survive. District 4 has been having a good decade…but the chance is so low that Arthur doesn't understand the allure anymore. He doesn't understand risking your life and your sanity for something that feels hardly worth it.

He often feels like he doesn't understand anything anymore.

The lives of others make no sense to him. The decisions made by people he passes on the streets when going with Copper to the animal shelter are completely beyond rhyme or reason to him.

Arthur heaves a sigh, unable to tear his eyes away from his face in the mirror. He doesn't like whoever is looking back at him. They are a person who has killed. They are a person who has watched allies fall, one by one, until they were the only one remaining. They are the one who is missing an entire forearm.

They are not Arthur.

But Arthur doesn't know who they are, either.

Arthur doesn't know who Arthur is, either.

He just feels lost. He doesn't know who he is anymore. He doesn't know where he's going anymore. Nothing makes sense, and he finds himself wondering more often than not if it ever will. He can scarcely remember a time when his life wasn't a messy, when his _mind_ wasn't a mess. It doesn't seem real that at some point, his life _was_ normal. It is practically unfathomable to him that once upon a time (also known as, two years ago) Arthur was laughing with his friends, still having panic attacks about something as inconsequential as _water_, going to Faustus and firing bullseyes. He used to be normal.

Arthur isn't sure what normal is anymore.

He clenches his hands around the edge of the countertop, glaring at his reflection as if daring it look away first. Of course, it's never going to look away. It may be his reflection, but it's not Arthur Singlewave.

"Arthur?"

Arthur slowly lifts his head and looks toward the door. "…what?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Arthur says offhandedly. _No. I'm not okay. _"I'm fine."

"…okay," Copper says slowly in a tone that indicates he does not believe Arthur. Not for a second. "Have you seen Cody?"

Arthur feels the ghost of a smile on his face. 'Cody' is Copper's nickname for Coat Hanger, since he says that is a ridiculous name for a cat. He calls Candlestick 'Candee' and Toaster 'Toasty'. Arthur doesn't really mind; he often regrets calling Coat Hanger 'Coat Hanger', but there is not much he can do about it now. What's named is named. "No. I…I've only seen Toaster."

"Oh. Okay. Maybe he's downstairs." Copper's footsteps fade away, the old floorboards creaking under his feet.

Arthur breathes a sigh of relief. He knows Copper cares. It just doesn't feel like he deserves Copper's concern, or Copper's love. Copper deserves so, so much better than the mess that is Arthur Singlewave. It's not that Arthur doesn't love Copper, or think that Copper doesn't love him, it's just…Copper shouldn't have to deal with all of Arthur's emotional baggage. Not that Arthur would ever trade Copper for anyone, but he hates himself for making Copper worry about him so often. It's all his fault, after all. If he was better, Copper would be so much happier.

His reflection blinks back at him. Arthur shuts his eyes and pulls open the bathroom door.

"Meow," Coat Hanger tells him, sitting a few feet away at the top of the stairs, his tail swishing behind him pleasantly. "Meow."

"Hi," Arthur greets to the cat, who pays him no attention, simply staring him down with his tail continuing to swish around. Arthur turns his head. "Copper! I found Coat Hanger!"

"Okay!"

Arthur stoops and picks up Coat Hanger, carefully tucking his three legs in around his arms. He starts to head toward their bedroom with Coat Hanger held tight in his arms.

"Meow," Coat Hanger complains, squirming in Arthur's grip. "Meow!"

"I know," Arthur says.

He walks into his and Copper's bedroom, seeing Copper sitting on the bed with a book in his hands. Arthur drops the cat onto the bed. "Here," he says, watching Coat Hanger walk up Copper's legs and settle on his chest. "I guess you're stuck there for a while."

"Indeed I am," Copper says, setting down his book and gently stroking Coat Hanger's head. He eyes Arthur oddly. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." Arthur's eyes flit to the ground for a millisecond. "I'm fine."

Copper stares at him. "If…if you're sure. You just seem…I don't know. Weird?"

"Weirder than usual?"

Copper laughs good-naturedly, trying to sit up without dumping Coat Hanger off of his lap. "Yeah. Weirder than usual."

Arthur's heart skips a beat. "Oh." He swallows thickly and lifts his head for a moment. "I'm fine."

"That's what you always say," Copper says. He carefully lifts Coat Hanger off his chest, setting him down on bed beside him. "Really, Arthur…I don't think you are fine."

"I'm fine."

Copper shuts his eyes for a moment. "Arthur…"

"I'm _fine_, Copper," Arthur says impatiently. He's tired of telling people he's fine. He. Is. Fine. He's _working on it_. He has been working on it for two years. He doesn't need Copper's help, even if Copper is willing to give it. Copper doesn't want to know what Arthur worries about. He doesn't want to know what goes on in Arthur's head. No one wants to know what goes on in Arthur's head. Arthur doesn't even want to know what goes on inside his head, yet he's the one living it. "You don't need to worry so much about me. It's been two years. I'm okay." He throws in a grin for good measure.

"Well…" Copper ventures, looking uncertainly at Arthur. "I'm always here, you know. If you want to talk."

"I know," Arthur amends, his voice flat. "I know, Copper."

"It sure doesn't seem like it," Copper mumbles, staring at his lap. "You can talk it about it, you know. You don't have to always run from your problems, Arthur. …you know that, right?"

"Of course I do," Arthur says through gritted teeth. "I'm fine, Copper. You don't need to worry about me. I can fix myself. We've been together for a year, Copper and known each other for even longer. Haven't you figured it out yet? I can…" Arthur's voice falters. "I can fix myself."

Copper locks eyes with him, blue meeting blue, his eyes telling a thousand words. "I just don't like to see you unhappy."

Arthur swallows again. "I know. I don't like to see you unhappy either." _He's only unhappy because of you._

**A/N: Here's to updating four days late! Isn't my update schedule just amazing?**

**In all seriousness: I have finally, **_**finally**_** decided on a close date for submissions. So, submissions will close on **_**October 25**__**th**__**, 2019**_**. The list will be announced with the final prologue, at the latest on October 28****th****. Most likely, you can expect it on the 26****th****, unless it takes me a while to write the chapter or I have a lot of decisions to make with the list. **

**1\. Do you like Arthur?**

**2\. Do you like his names for his cats?**

**3\. Will he ever manage to fix himself?**

**4\. Is he or Vin more messed up?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: do you like cats?**

**My answer: obviously. I have two of them. Fred and Ally. Ally sucks and Fred is amazing. **

**Next update will be the final prologue, where we meet all twenty-four mentors. So, I'll hopefully see you on the twenty-sixth!**

**-Amanda**


	5. The Ones Who Survived

_One Week Before the Reapings_

In each district across Panem stands a fountain in the center of an ever-growing graveyard. The names of one-hundred-fifty-two years' worth of tributes, dead or alive, grace these graveyards. Rows upon rows of graves, all curving around the fountain in the center, which bubbles with constant water. Each fountain is covered in carvings—the names of each district's Victors, no matter how many or how few.

This little tradition started decades ago, maybe even a whole century—the pair of this year's mentors take a trip to the Tribute Graveyard. Some use it as a reminder of how they survived over so many that could have, and that is why they deserve Victory. Some see it as a burden, a horrible reminder of what is lost with each passing summer. Each Victor sees this tradition differently; it is like the old saying coined by one Deasia Marquis, of the First Annual Hunger Games: some wear it like a crown, some wear it like a weight.

…

Twenty four names on their fountain. Enough Victors that they could hold their own Hunger Games if all of them were alive at one time. Neapolitan has their names memorized. He would memorize the names of all two-hundred, seventy-eight tributes District 1 has sent to win and lost, if he could find all of the names. Some graves have sat here for so long they are no longer readable, their inscriptions washed away with the endless void of time.

Amethyst. Iolite. Crown. Morganite. Admiration. Jason. Gemma. Carnelian. Citrina. Charming. Allegra. Satin. Silver. Silvera. Castor. Aventurine. _Him._ Sunstone. Peridot. Pyrite. Jacinth. Alexandrite. Cattler. Money. Vin.

It's quite a list. But it's not long enough, not by any of the living District 1 Victor's standards. Neapolitan can't help but think of each tribute he has lost since his Victory; he can still remember many of their names, but more have been lost in the haze between each Games. After all, this is the second time Neapolitan has mentored since the One-Hundredth, Thirty-Second Games, when Pyrite won.

Neapolitan quietly traces his finger along his own name upon the fountain, slightly weathered with age. After all, it has been thirty-three years since it was carved. He knows there is an upkeep crew for this very fountain—a separate, less punctual one for the graves—which comes in every morning to polish each name, but even that cannot stop time from taking its toll.

Time has taken its toll on Neapolitan as well. He no longer feels the same when he looks upon his wife, Ametrine. He no longer feels the same well of pride when he looks upon his daughter, his son-in-law and his grandchildren. It no longer feels the same way.

It is an understatement to say Neapolitan misses the good old days. Back when he and Ametrine were still young, practically children themselves. Back when his daughter was unmarried, free as the wind, running through their backyard excitedly. Those days are long gone, but that doesn't mean Neapolitan doesn't wish they were still here.

Life before the Games is even harder to remember. As he draws his finger along the words _Peridot Nero, 127__th__ Hunger Games_, he remembers the days when he trained at Court, unknowing of the future that awaited him. Young, naïve little Neapolitan Gregorovich, with such hope in his heart as he trained for something he later found out he didn't really want.

The crunch of grass makes Neapolitan look up to see Vin slowly making her way through one of the rows of graves, her hands wrapped tightly around a steaming mug of coffee. Her face is drawn and tired—as always, Neapolitan has noted in his time living down the street from her—and she looks as if she just woke up.

But Vin did not just wake up. She has been awake for hours. Sixty-three, to be exact. (And yes, she has been counting.) That's one of the problems with trauma—everyone deals with it differently, and one of Vin's favorite ways is to abstain from sleeping until she passes out on the way to get more coffee.

Vin is, for once, too tired to even feel mad. And Vin Faust is _always_ mad about something. Currently, she knows she should be mad about each grave she passes—_pointless deaths, pointless, pointless, pointless_—but she simply can't muster up the energy for it. _That's a first_, she thinks vaguely as she walks past each grave. Name after name after name of long dead people—_children_—but Vin doesn't feel bothered for once. She has been here before. She has read the graves until her vision blurs and her head pounds, but today feels different. Today is a first for many reasons.

"Hi, Neapolitan," Vin greets quietly, silently dropping onto the edge of the fountain beside Neapolitan.

"Hello, Vin," Neapolitan says cordially. Vin knows Neapolitan doesn't like her. It's clear to see. Not that Vin is very popular around District 1—what with being the reason Rowena Gemmings didn't get to volunteer, winning when her one job was to die, and just generally being a rebel—but she has always known the others Victors from one dislike her, resent her, even. It's nothing new to her. "How are you today?"

Vin shrugs a little, staring down her reflection in the water of the fountain. "I'm fine."

"You look awfully tired," Neapolitan notes. Vin can't tell if the concern in his voice is fake or real.

"I'm fine," Vin says again, her voice more firm this time. "I'd just rather be at home." She carefully takes a sip of her coffee, squinting slightly at her reflection. "This isn't exactly my definition of a good time."

"It's not mine, either," says Neapolitan.

Vin looks at him, but Neapolitan either ignores her or doesn't notice. She fears it is the former. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Neapolitan looks up, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"You're a Victor, you're a loyalist! This should be great fun for you, right?" Vin says, unearthing the absent anger from earlier but finding it is rather unwanted. "What's more fun than sitting alone in a graveyard that is literally honoring our continued existence?"

Neapolitan heaves a sigh and shuts his eyes. "Vin. Just because I won doesn't mean I condone the Hunger Games."

"Bitch, please! You _volunteered_, willingly, for the Hunger Games!" Vin growls, the lack of energy and vehement anger at the Hunger Games fighting for dominance inside her head.

Neapolitan stands up and walks a few feet away. "You're assuming an awful lot of me, Vin." With that, he walks away, silently leaving Vin alone in the graveyard.

Vin stares blankly into space and takes another sip of coffee. It's gone cold.

…

Will can't remember the exact number of Victors District 2—can anyone?—but he knows it's more than there probably should be. Not to say their tributes should just go into the arena and throw themselves to the mines, but they have taken it too far. Training in the eventuality of being Reaped is one thing, but training for the purpose of volunteering disgusts him.

And, sure, once upon a time, Will was a trainee at Stander. Not by choice and not by blood, though.

Will doesn't consider him a true citizen of District 2, since technically he should be a Capitolite. Long story short, Will's father hated him, paid some friends to take him out in a hovercraft and kill him, which ended poorly when Will woke up on a hill in the middle of District 2 with complete amnesia, and then was told to train for the Hunger Games.

And then had came Alana van Stelen. The Goddess of Stander, some trainees had nicknamed her. The obvious Victor. And of course, when everyone is certain someone else is going to win, no one wants to volunteer. The academy had to choose someone they could afford to lose who wasn't going to stand a chance in the arena, yet still give the Capitolites a good show.

The obvious choice had been the amnesiac asshole that Alana just happened to despise with the passion of a thousand suns. And so Will had been sent into the arena as a sacrificial lamb, a sheep led to the slaughter, an accessory.

Yet here Will stands in the place of Alana van Stelen. He knows everyone in 2 resents him for killing his own District partner—considered a taboo by some—but it's not his fault. They wanted an accessory, but Will just wanted to live.

So live Will does. Unfortunately he has to take a break from living happily like a relatively normal person because Hestia can't handle spending a few weeks in the company of Varen. Of course, Will doesn't really blame Hestia for hating Varen, but at least Will can talk to him without screaming like a drunk banshee. Hestia's hatred for Varen is almost comical, especially when compared to every other Victor from District 2. None of them like Varen—they can all agree he's a cocky, arrogant asshole—but Hestia hates him especially much. Maybe it's because she lives next door to him, and therefore can hear him having his wonderful, very… _vocal,_ for lack of better word, orgies in the middle of the night. Will can certainly agree with hating him because of that, but he doubts that's the main reason. Hestia just seems to hate most people. Varen just has a special place on her hit list, which Will does not doubt is a real, tangible piece of paper that Hestia has tucked away somewhere. He can only hope he is not on it.

A name on one of the passing graves catches his eye. _Alana van Stelen_. He feels, after everything she did, that she hardly even deserves a grave here, but such is the nature of District 2 to honor her, even decades after the fact.

Will can feel the hatred of the people around him when he walks down the street, but he doesn't care. It's been a long, long time since Will really cared—sometimes he wonders if he ever did, even when he lived in the Capitol—and he's not about to start. Especially not for people who resent him for daring to win the Hunger Games.

Yes, how dare he kill Alana van Stelen? How _dare _he actually try to win? It's an utter travesty, a horrible thing for someone to _want_ to win the Hunger Games! He should be forever shunned for this horrible act he committed decades ago!

Long story short, the people of District 2_ really_ know how to hold a grudge. He wouldn't doubt that when he inevitably dies, they'll deface his grave. That is just how much he is hated.

"What in Panem are you looking at?"

Will takes a deep breath through his nose and looks up to meet Hestia's eyes. She stares back at him from a few rows away, leaning casually on a gravestone. _She is really short_, Will thinks first. _She's also leaning on someone's fucking _gravestone_! _he berates himself, inadvertently starting to glare at Hestia. "Hi."

"Why'd we come here again?"

"Because it's tradition?" Will says, his eyes darting around confusedly.

Hestia has been mentoring since she won, and seeing as she had always been accompanied by _Varen_, she assumed it was something Varen made up. "Like, we did it last year, but that was only because Varen insisted on coming along. Why did we even fuckin' show up? I could be at home right now. Doing literally anything but standing in this fucking graveyard."

"Okay? Cool?" Will says, shrugging. "We're here now."

"Yes, I can see that, oddly enough," Hestia deadpans. She starts to head toward the fountain. Thirty-one names proudly engraved in it. Hestia would never say this out loud, but she often comes here in the middle of the night, just to trace her own name. Because she fucking did it. She did what two-hundred, seventy tributes from 2 couldn't do. She did what Alana van Stelen couldn't do. She did what Silvanus Seacrest couldn't do. She did what Evander Steid couldn't do. Hell, she did what her district partner, perfect little Lyon, couldn't do! She damn well killed perfect little Lyon, and she fucking enjoyed it.

Because Hestia won, damnit! She _deserves_ her place on this fountain, more than any of those two-hundred, seventy rotting corpses buried in this graveyard! She deserves this more than Sniper Forth, more than Mika Alvarez, more than Kasey Sluder, more than Valkyrie Mondenya, more than Persephone McCormick, more than Hera MacKay, and _way_ fucking more than Varen 'Asshat' Alexander. She deserves to stand here, alive over so many who could stand in the same position.

She fucking deserves it, and she's willing to shout it from the rooftops.

Hestia smirks, kneeling at the fountain and tracing her finger along the engraving of _Hestia Olympia, 146__th__ Hunger Games_. She dreamed when she little of seeing her name on this fountain, and here it is. In all of its glory, fading slightly with age but there nonetheless. Can Lyon say that? No! Lyon can't say anything, because he's fucking_ dead_.

Satisfied, Hestia slowly stands, turning to find Will still staring at the same grave from before. "Hey, fuckface!" she yells to him. "I'm going to get coffee, wanna come?"

Will glares at her. "Nice nickname," he notes. "But sure."

…

Rocket is, well, tired. But he's used to being tired. He's always tired anymore. Maybe that's because he spends so many nights getting plastered so he doesn't have to think. Getting alcohol poisoning would just be a happy bi-product.

A silent existence in one that Rocket Sanchez has always lived. Born both deaf and mute, everyone took one look at him and said, "Welp, he's a lost cause." Rocket would have yelled 'shut up!' to all of them if he had actually seen them say it, and could actually say it aloud. But no, Rocket is stuck thinking it forever.

And so obviously, when little twelve-year-old Rocket Sanchez was Reaped for the Hunger Games, once again, everyone said, "Welp, he's a lost cause."

Aside from Thalia Eames. Thalia, the only remaining mentor in 3 despite Cobalt having won less than a decade before, did not lose faith in Rocket. And so Rocket also did not lose faith in Rocket. He fought through a silent arena, killed three Careers and an outlier, and came out as the sole survivor.

For years, Rocket lived happily. All through his teens, he was happy, unless you count those first few months when he nearly drank himself to death. He had a girlfriend. His younger sisters were safe. His mother was doing better. Life was finally, _finally_ going right for Rocket.

But recently, he has fallen into old habits. His girlfriend broke up with him a few months ago. His mother succumbed to cancer just a week after said messy breakup. The Games are fast approaching. Suddenly, Rocket's life seems to have fallen back to pieces. His carefully sewn stitches have been ripped to shreds, thrown into a trash compactor, burnt to ash, and then thrown into an ocean.

So he turns to the only friend he has left.

Alcohol.

Currently, as he stumbles through the rows upon rows of old, crumbling graves, his head pounds, his hangover evident. Maybe not to a random passerby, but perhaps to someone who knew Rocket well enough to see when he is hungover. Like right now. But alcohol is something to lean on, a way out. Rocket doesn't really mind feeling awful the next morning, especially since he'll probably just do it all over again.

Rocket has been trying to stay sober until the Games are over. But that is certainly easier said than done. What can he say? He likes his alcohol a little too much.

Well, not really the _taste_, per say. He actually finds the taste of most beer to be downright repulsive. No, it's the affect that Rocket so desires that allows him to choke down such disgusting liquid. He forgets when he drinks. He doesn't think when he drinks. He simply lays around, not really awake but not really asleep either. That's exactly what Rocket wants. He doesn't want to die; maybe one day things could get better. But for now, he needs a way to cope. No matter how unhealthy that way is.

_Maybe one day I'll change, _Rocket muses as he drifts through the rows of graves. _But that day is certainly not today. _

The gate creaks as Thalia enters the graveyard, immediately spotting Rocket from within the mass of headstones. If he were in the middle of a crowd, he would be immensely easy to lose. But seeing as he is the only one in the graveyard, and is stumbling a little, Thalia can't miss him.

Rocket, of course, remains blissfully unaware to Thalia's presence. With his back turned to the gates, there's no way for him to notice her.

Thalia sighs quietly, but the sound seems to echo loudly through the cemetery. She hates to see Rocket like this. He was so happy just last year, and now look at him. Depressed. A drunk. Hungover. She wants to help him, but knows he doesn't accept help easily. It practically takes an act from the president to get Rocket to acknowledge, out loud, that something is wrong. She knows he knows that the way he lives isn't right, yet he takes no action to remedy it. It's maddening.

All Thalia wants is the best for the people around her. She wants the best for Rocket. She wants the best for old Dell. She wants the best for her dying father. She wants the best for each and every one of her tributes, no matter how awful they may be. Everyone deserves a chance, even the worst of people. Thalia firmly believes there is good in everyone, and that there is a way to find it.

But even someone like Thalia has her limits. She has mentored tributes before that she knows there is no hope for. Take Jaz Tammel from three years ago. She wasn't even planning to _bother_. Thalia had known that there was nothing she could say that would save Jaz's mentality about the Games. It was a lost cause, and she would only be wasting her time.

And so every time Thalia has laid eyes on Rocket in the past few months, her heart aches. He looks worse and worse each time she sees him, and she can only imagine what goes on in that silent head of his. He has hardly any way to voice his concerns, aside from writing or sign language.

Thalia stands silently at the gates, looking at Rocket's back as he walks crookedly toward the fountain in the center of the graveyard. She sighs, slightly disappointed, and starts to walk after him. He swore he'd stay sober until the Games were over, or at least until both of their tributes were dead. He _swore_. Thalia always keeps people to their word—if they said they'd do something, they had been do that something. It was common courtesy. Yet here Rocket stands—or stumbles, rather—hungover, having broken his promise time and time again. Thalia doesn't really know why she expects it of Rocket anymore—he was so happy just a year ago, and now look at him—he goes from high to low in a few seconds. One moment he'll be gushing about one of his little sisters, and the next he'll be sobbing and drinking himself half to death. That's just the way Rocket works. And no matter what Thalia tries, she knows, deep down, that that is not going to change any time soon.

That may be the saddest part of it all.

Thalia has never liked feeling helpless. She is so used to being able to do something, anything, to help those around her. She extends the hand of kindness whenever she can, but sometimes that hand is broken. And in Rocket's case…well, it has practically been ripped off and thrown in the garbage.

…

The Graveyard of Great Sacrifice sits just off the beach in District 4. Chance comes here more often than he would like to admit—it's a good place to think, a good place to remind himself of what he could have lost. The sound of waves crashing against the shore makes him think of the tropical island that he almost lost the love of his life in, over a decade ago now.

He stands with his arms resting on the short fence, facing the ocean and breathing in the beautiful smell that District 4 has alone. He remembers his Victory Tour vaguely—resentful faces, saddened families staring him down, meaningless speeches, horrible smells assaulting his nose in each outlying District he passed—but he doubts he could ever fully forget it. It was the first time he'd ever seen the other districts in person. It had made him long the ocean, the clear smelling air of District 4 even more than he had in the cave-system arena he had fought in. That place just smelled like dust. Some of the outlying districts had a distinct scent of death, poverty, and just general human misery.

As Chance watches the waves rolling in and out of the beach, a small family comes out onto the beach. The pair of children, a boy and a girl, sit down in the surf and start to draw in the sand, blissfully unaware that their creations will be washed away the next time a large wave comes in.

Sure enough, a few moments later, a wave comes crashing over the shore and the drawings disappear. The girl, who appears to be the younger of the two, starts crying and runs for her mother, while her brother just remains seated, staring at the water as if it has done him great personal wrong.

Chance sighs and turns around, heading for the fountain in the center of the graveyard. Waves can wash away pictures in the sand, but there are too many things that Chance's love for the ocean can't fix. It can't fix his own trauma. It can't fix Alec's fear of the dark. It can't fix…well, any of Arthur's issues, since that is one of his main ones. It can't wash away all of the things Chance has lost in his few decades of life. Waves can't wash away anything of note. In a year, those children will never think of these drawings that were washed away. But Chance will think of the things that water can never fix.

The fountain bubbles cheerfully in front of Chance as he approaches it. He quickly locates his name, situated just beside Alec's and just above Arthur's. It stares back at him as if daring him to look away first. Chance stares at it for a moment, willing it to sink back into the stone. But of course, it doesn't. It was a choice Chance made as a fifteen-year-old tribute, when he could have let the girl from 9 kill him in the finale. But he didn't, and most of the time, he doesn't regret it. He doesn't regret working his ass off to make sure Alec got out of the arena, either. He doesn't regret helping Arthur escape the arena.

(Although sometimes he wonders if Arthur would have been happier dead.)

Chance glances out toward the rows of graves, wondering if maybe he himself should be buried among them.

_No, _he decides. He fought tooth and nail to stand here, and he has never wasted it before.

Chance continues to stare off into the seemingly-endless ocean, wondering where Arthur is. Arthur said he'd come, and Chance is one to hold someone to their word. He can kind of understand Arthur not wanting to come to a graveyard and be reminded of his Games, but at the same…Chance comes here every year. Alec did too, before Arthur won. Reyes and Saior and Lycora did it as well.

He breathes a sigh of relief when Arthur appears down the path, his head down and his hands in his pockets.

Time has not been kind to Arthur Singlewave. Chance knows it. Alec knows it. Hell, even Saior, Reyes and Lycora know it. Chance often finds himself wondering if Arthur knows it, however.

Arthur silently extricates his hands from his sweatshirt pocket, careful to not jostle the cat scratches on his arm. Coat Hanger had knocked over the milk carton earlier that morning and scratched Arthur in anger.

As Arthur nears the fountain, passing through the newest row of graves, the names of tributes he knew, that he fought with, against, and mentored fly past his eyes.

_Marina Galindez, Seventeen-years-old. Placed sixteenth in the One-Hundred-Fifty-First Annual Hunger Games. _

_Reef Baywater, eighteen-years-old. Placed ninth in the One-Hundred-Fifty-Second Annual Hunger Games._

_Stella Winters, eighteen-years-old. Placed second in the One-Hundred-Fifty-Second Annual Hunger Games. _

Arthur pauses by these three graves. These three graves hold so many memories below the ground with the bodies they mark. Marina, the girl in the hot-tub who laughed and joked with him. Reef, the insecure boy who had no idea where he was going, but knew he would get there eventually. Stella, the one still in mourning, determined to bring home Victory for her deceased sister. They were real.

And now they are just dead.

Every grave in this cemetery marks a real person, who is now nothing but a corpse. The oldest graves mark nothing but bones. The newest ones would still largely look like a human being—of course, nothing like Reef or Stella. But there would still notions there to remind you that, yes, once upon a time, that was a living, breathing human beings with thoughts, feeling and aspirations.

Arthur can't stop thinking that he should be buried beside Marina. Two years it's been, and it still feels like nothing has changed.

Finally he steels himself and starts toward the fountain again, his eyes drifting past Chance and landing on his name, carved into the fountain.

_Arthur Singlewave, 151__st__ Hunger Games. _

If anyone doesn't deserve to be on that fountain, it's him.

…

Ave remembers each and every tribute she has ever mentored. Never once has won managed to take Victory. Twenty-seven years it's been, and yet she and Solaryn stand here, all alone. Amaris was executed for everything she did. Laia caught a fatal disease four years ago. Even Cormac had died. Now Ave and Sol stand as the last testament to the Victors from District 5, a feat they fear may never be repeated again.

It _hurts_ to lose two tributes, year after year after year. Ave has a notebook full of their names, paired with little notes about each tribute. There are no placements. There are no kill counts. They are not tributes. They are—were—people. Even Hydra Bekkar has her own space. Ave believes everyone should be mourned, no matter who they were in life—no one deserves to be forgotten in death.

This notebook lays open on Ave's lap as she sits beside Sol, the fountain bubbling merrily behind them. Ave slowly drags her finger along the spine of the old notebook, looking at the half-filled page in front of her. Each name, lovingly written in remembrance of who District 5 lost that year, surrounded by little notes of who they were in life, makes Ave's heart ache as she looks at it.

Her eyes skim the page before they pause by two names; _Wren Willodean, 12 _and _Kiran Comaydos, 12_. Two rows below sits the names of last year's tributes.

_Kenessa Washington, 18._

_Corrin Willodean, 16._

The last Willodean to fall. The last person around to remember Wren as who she was, not who she became. The last person who could say anything about her childhood, who knew her for more than a week before she disappeared, off to the slaughterhouse.

Last year was a year of many legacy tributes. A reminder of the last Quell, as if the Capitol wanted to scream in their faces, "HEY. REMEMBER THE SIXTH QUARTER QUELL? NO? WELL, HERE ARE SOME SIBLINGS OF THE TRIBUTES TO JOG YOUR MEMORY. ENJOY."

Ave did not forget. The names in her notebook stand to prove that fact. How could she forget?

But Ave doesn't want to forget, either. She is content to remember the horrors of the arena, to remember each tribute that she failed to save. It may be difficult, but Ave has never been one to give up easily.

Wren was a tribute Ave thought, honest to Panem, could have won. Maybe should have won, but Ave doesn't hold grudges. Not against anyone. Her anger dissolves too quickly.

She doesn't blame Macy Barker. She doesn't hate Macy Barker. Ave understands wanting to win, and being willing to do anything to get out. After all, she had been in Macy's shoes once, fighting tooth and nail to return home. She knows how it feels, and therefore can't blame anyone for winning the Hunger Games, even if they deserve it less than someone else. Ave's twin sister, Nue, always says Ave doesn't have it in her heart to be bitter about anything. _"Someone could walk up to us, right now, and shoot me in the head, and you would forgive them."_

Ave can't exactly say she's wrong.

As Ave pages through her notebook of deceased tributes, Sol rests his head on her shoulder. Twenty-five years it's been since they got together, and Sol hasn't regretted a second of it. Seeing Ave smile makes his heart practically explode. He loves her more than anything else in the world. He loves her more than his sisters, Soleil and Sparklyn. He loves her more than his brother, Lumen. Ave brightens his life every day. Every moment he can be around her is a moment well-spent.

Sol stares off into the graveyard as Ave hums a song quietly, still paging through her notebook. He can understand Ave's insatiable need to remember every tribute they mentor, both the good and the bad, but he has never seen a reason to do so. Sol doesn't fear being forgotten. He doesn't fear death. He doesn't really fear much anymore. One can only fight so many battles, kill so many people, shed so much blood before they feel less and less afraid of having to do it again. His games, twenty-eight years ago, the fifth Quarter Quell, had four times the tributes fighting in its ranks. Eight tributes from each district, four boys and four girls, making almost every tribute just another face in the crowd.

Those Games lasted a grand total of fifty-one days, seven hours, nineteen minutes and forty-two seconds. A whole nine tributes died in the first day, because the entire arena had been pitch black. No one could see a thing, meaning no one could kill a thing. Then one day, the lights had inexplicably turned on, showing the tributes that they were lost in a deep cave system.

Sol had escaped the arena with twelve kills to his name. The other eighty-three were all committed by the arena or a previously deceased tribute.

To this day, Sol doesn't know how he managed to kill that many people and not bat an eyelash. Maybe it was just because he so desperately wanted to get home. Maybe it was just because he wanted to prove his worth to all of Panem, to prove that he wasn't just another face in the crowd of tributes. He was so, so tire of being overlooked, and this was his chance to show everyone that Solaryn Duke-Dare was not someone to pass by.

And you know what? Maybe Sol hates the fact that he killed so many people, but he doesn't regret it. He doesn't regret winning. After all, if he had never won, he never would have met Ave. They never would have gotten the chance to be happy together. He never would have known what it felt like to be the most important thing in someone's life.

And, well, if that's not the best feeling in the entirety of Panem, then Sol throw himself off a bridge.

…

**(TW for suicide.)**

Two-hundred, ninety-seven.

The largest number in all of the districts. The biggest graveyard, one of the only places across all of District 6 with green grass that Slums can get into without breaking the law. The gates are always open to mourners, Victors and random citizens alike. Of course, graves have been defaced. Water has been stolen from the fountain (not that it can ever be proven; it is _water_, after all.). The place has fallen into disrepair, time and time again, but someone always makes sure it gets cleaned up eventually.

Name after name after name Kasumi passes as she walks to meet Dixie at the fountain, emblazoned with just five names. _It should be six,_ Kasumi thinks angrily, clenching her fists as she walks. If it were not for Arthur Singlewave, there would be six names. The name Warren Oto should be beside her own, not on a lifeless gravestone beside that of his sworn enemy.

In places like 1 or 2, the fountain is covered with names. Their Victors are crammed into corners, shoved here and there just so each gets a place on the Fountain of Victory.

But in District 6? Those five names hardly have to fight for dominance. Each of their Victors were special in their own ways; Maverick, the first Victor from 6, the last district to gain a Victor. Aspen, the first volunteer from District 6. Brighton, the first twelve-year-old to win the Games. Dixie, who dedicated her life to fixing District 6's problems and still has yet to succeed.

And Kasumi. The angry girl who gets attached to tributes far, far too easily.

Certain names jump out and grab Kasumi's attention as she passes. _Chevrolet Harper_ is the first one to scream at her. Maverick's district partner. The daughter of arguably the most notorious drug lord in all of District 6, Martin Harper. Of course, he has been dead for decades, but his legacy still carries on in the form of Salvo Mitsui.

When Kasumi comes upon the most recent graves, she shuts her eyes and lifts her head toward the sky. She doesn't need to look at them to remember what they say.

_Brandon Hughes, twelve-years-old. Placed seventeenth in the One-Hundred-Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games._

_Tesla Mercedust, twelve-years-old. Placed sixteenth in the One-Hundred-Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games. _

_Mercy Mitsui, sixteen-years-old. Placed seventh in the One-Hundred-Fifty-First Annual Hunger Games. _

_Warren Oto, eighteen-years-old. Placed second in the One-Hundred-Fifty-First Annual Hunger Games. _

_Destine Macleod, fourteen-years-old. Placed twenty-fourth in the One-Hundred-Fifty-Second Annual Hunger Games. _

_Roderick Castellan, eighteen-years-old. Placed thirteenth in the One-Hundred-Fifty-Second Annual Hunger Games. _

Kasumi clenches her fists tighter as she stares into the empty, cloudless sky. The sky in 6 has a tinge to it—a constant reminder of the pollution they are always putting into the air. It's so thick that you can't even see the stars at night. That is the only reason Kasumi likes train rides. She can see the stars. You can't see them in 6. You can't see them in the Capitol, either.

She remains standing there for so long her legs begin to go numb, just staring blankly at the graves before her. The words on each headstone blurred together. Kasumi couldn't tell if it was because she had been staring for so long or there were tears in her eyes.

These three pairs of graves stand as a reminder of Kasumi's failures. She _knows_ District 6 doesn't just _win the Hunger Games_. But she still feels terrible. Because she failed her tributes by not doing more. She doesn't exactly know what she could have done, but there must have been something. There must have been something she could have done to stop Arthur Singlewave for breaking Warren's head in. There must have been something she could have done to stop Nyroc Cousteau from stabbing Destine in the stomach.

"Kasumi?" Dixie asks, concern in her voice and face as she approaches Kasumi from behind. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Kasumi says tightly, but Dixie knows she isn't. Kasumi gets too easily attached, gets too hopeful when it comes to their tributes. Kasumi has managed to beat herself up every time one of their tributes die, and Dixie doesn't see much of a reason anymore.

Sure, Dixie has regrets too. But she has been at this for much, much longer than Kasumi has. Forty-eight years, to be exact. She's getting on in her years. She knows she's not long for this world. District 6 is notorious for many things beyond a huge drug and gang-violence issue: mainly, there is so much pollution that everyone dies early. The air isn't clean, and no one does a single thing about it. 6 is beyond the notice of everyone else in Panem, unless they happen to win the Hunger Games ever thirty or so years. Sometimes it's more. It's never less.

Dixie can admit that life doesn't have the same quality as it had a few decades ago, but she has never felt the need to take drastic measures. Nothing like Brighton Salvador.

Two days after Dixie had returned to District 6, celebrating her newfound status as a Victor, Brighton killed himself. It had been his plan all along, Dixie knew. He had been waiting for the day he finally, _finally_ brought someone home so District 6 wouldn't go Victor-less once he ended everything. Dixie knew Brighton had a lot of mental health issues, but she never thought he would do something like that.

And so Dixie had made it her mission to make sure no one else ever felt that way. She started with the Community Home, where Brighton had grown up. She donated money. She made friends with the children who lived there. She was tired of seeing sad, drawn faces on little kids, who should be lively and animated, living their lives with enthusiasm.

That feeling has dulled as of late. Dixie has done so much. The Community Home in 6 is much, much better than it had been when Brighton lived there. The residents were happy, living with much fuller stomachs than before. Dixie had done what she had set out to accomplish. So maybe the fire isn't quite _there_ anymore, but Dixie is happy with where she landed.

She's happy. Maybe Kasumi isn't happy, and Dixie always wants the best for those she cares about, but for now, Dixie can revel in her happiness before she dies. After everything she has done for the welfare of District 6, everyone can agree she deserves some time to rest.

…

When Macy won, it was sort of like a switch was flipped in Larken's head. Suddenly it became apparent that he could actually bring someone home, that he wasn't just going to keep losing tributes until the day he died. It was the best day of his life when Macy won; he had accomplished something! He could say he helped bring someone home! He was riding high off that happiness and was ready for another group of tributes to mentor.

But after two years of straight bloodbaths, that feeling of euphoria is starting to ware off.

Monk was no surprise. Vanye actually had some hope to her, but Larken has never thought the Games were fair. It was no surprise when they both fell in the Bloodbath, no matter how much Macy hated it.

Now, Beckham and Mae were a different story entirely.

Larken had really seen promise in them. Both of them were eighteen. Both of them were strong, capable lumberjacks. Both of them were perfectly mentally sound. They had promise, drive, spirit. Everything a Victor needed to possess. They seemed so perfect for it, too. Both of them were prepared to take on the mental strain being a Victor posed. They were ready, and they both wanted it. Mae had a girlfriend, and so did Beckham. They had families. They had lives they wanted to live. But since when has the Games been fair?

It was the third year in a row an alliance had been formed between the 7s.

Larken is starting to wonder if that's a taboo or something.

Beckham had fallen first. Twenty-first place, if Larken remember correctly. Of course, Beckham's lifeless grave is less than twenty feet away from him, but the sound of the bubbling fountain is making him tired and he just…really doesn't want to get up to check. It's just too far away for him to bother. He can make sure on the way back to the Victors' Village. Or he could not. He doesn't really care what placement Beckham ended up in. Twenty-fourth is just as dead as second is.

But anyways. Beckham took a knife to the side, courtesy of Nyroc from District 2. He lay there for a few minutes, slowly bleeding out before Mae came upon him. She had stared at him with haunted eyes before quickly slitting his throat and putting him out of his misery. Killing your district partner used to be a taboo, but all Mae had done was put Beckham out of his misery. She knew he wouldn't survive. He knew he wouldn't survive.

Mae had got up and started to run away from the Cornucopia, a backpack in tow and an ax in her hand. Larken could imagine this entire exchange on screen during the Victor's Interview, Mae sitting there looking broken about having to kill her own district partner. It seemed so perfect. She seemed like such an obvious Victor.

And then Nyroc Cousteau cut her head off. It had toppled to the ground, her eyes wide open with shock, blood splattering onto the grass as her body followed her head.

Larken had just sighed and followed Macy out of the mentoring room, leaving the others behind to bicker amongst themselves.

_It's amazing how quickly life can be snuffed out_, Larken thinks tiredly. _Just to think, Mae was alive one second and headless the next…she could have been a Victor, but she wasn't. _

The soft sound of the bubbling fountain slowly lulls Larken to sleep. His head droops back against the fountain with a quiet _thunk_, his eyes shut peacefully.

When Macy pushes open the gate and spots Larken asleep by the fountain, she shakes her head and smiles. Maybe if she had come from anywhere but Sprucen's house, she would have gone and rudely awakened Larken, but that warm feeling she gets whenever she sees Sprucen is still present.

She could stay here with Echo's mismarked grave (they didn't even have the courtesy to bury him under his real name), the headstones of Vanye and Monk and Mae and Beckham.

Or…alternatively, she could…go home.

Yeah, that sounds a lot better than staying here. It's June. It's hot out here. There's air conditioning back home. And if Larken was awake, sure, Macy would stay. But seeing as he isn't, and Macy doesn't feel like waking him up, she sees no point to sit in a graveyard with a few hundred decomposing bodies and a sleeping dude. That's just…weird.

So Macy turns around, quietly shutting the gate and starting back down the path. The Tribute Graveyard in 7 is one of the most beautiful places in all of District 7. Not just because it's planted in the middle of the forests, but because it feels natural. Macy remembers visiting the Graveyard in District 3 on her Victory Tour. It was a lifeless, gray place. She couldn't imagine being buried there.

But in District 7, the graves are not situated in rows. They sit in little clumps, delegated in decades. The fountain still sits in the middle, and although the base is still engraved with the names, the actual pool is covered in the same few words:

_We will never forget your sacrifice. _

Over and over again it is carved, and if you were to look into the water, you would hardly be able to make out what it says. But everyone in District 7 knows _exactly_ what it says. Macy is unsure whether it means the sacrifice of those who lived or those who died. Maybe it's both.

The crunch of the dirt path beneath her feet makes Macy forget the graveyard with its confusing words and lifeless headstones. Instead she focuses in on Sprucen. Perfect, beautiful, amazing Sprucen. People always say falling in love doesn't make all of your problems go away, but it sure does help. In the time that Sprucen has been in her life, she just feels lighter. She feels a human being again. It's an amazing feeling.

(It's also a feeling she didn't realize she'd lost until she got it back.)

…

Koren still finds it funny that Travers waited for so long to ask her to marry him. They have four children, all of which are over the age of twelve, and only got married two years ago. Of course, she could have asked him herself, but where's the fun in that? She has never doubted that Travers loves her back, not after four kids and decades of dating.

Their oldest, Magdalene (or Maggie, as she prefers to be called) is almost out of Reaping age. She has just two more Reapings to escape, but that doesn't mean the fear isn't real.

Their only son, Waylin (or Lin, as he is often known as) has three more years to survive. But any of three Reapings could lead to him fighting (and likely dying) in the Games. It's a thought that Koren doesn't want to think, but it is always there, in its own corner of her mind.

Their second daughter at fourteen-years-old, Akilah (or Aki, as Koren lovingly called her as a toddler and never stopped) fears being Reaped possibly more than anything. She has seen both of her parents fight in the Games, and she knows what would happen if her name came out of that miserable glass bowl.

Their last child, just thirteen-years-old, Henley (who manages to be the only one of their children without a nickname), does not fear the Reapings. She does not fear death. For a thirteen-year-old, that is quite the feat, but Koren can't help but admire her youngest daughter's resolve.

And so she and Henley slowly make their way down a row of graves as Travers and Maggie laugh by the fountain, Lin and Aki back home in the Victors' Village. Koren can't blame them for not wanting to tag along on this particular adventure; the Tribute Graveyard is one of the most bleak places in all of District 8. Koren imagine burying one of her children here.

"Did you know that one?" Henley asks, pointing to a gravestone marked with _Cloey Alston, seventeen-years-old. Placed sixth in the One-Hundred-Thirty-Sixth Annual Hunger Games. _

"Yes," Koren says. "Although I believe Travers mentored her; I took her younger district partner that year."

"Oh," Henley says. "Cool."

Koren shakes her head at her daughter. Henley has no fear of death, but she also has no respect for it.

"What about that one?" Henley asks, pointing to another headstone further down the line, engraved with _Alexzander Turiel, eighteen-years-old. Placed second in the One-Hundred-Thirty-Ninth Annual Hunger Games. _

"Yes, I mentored Alexzander," Koren answers dutifully.

"Oh. What about—"

Koren cuts off her daughter and says, "Hen, I love that you're curious about these kids, but we can't stay here forever."

"Oh. Right." Koren starts toward the fountain, glancing behind her to make sure Henley is following. Henley lags behind slightly, carefully inspecting each grave she passes, but Koren doesn't really mind. As long as Henley stays in the graveyard, she can go wherever she wants. But the streets beyond are dangerous, especially for girls around Henley's age.

Travers grins at his wife as she approaches. "Henley keeping you, huh?"

"All the graves sure pique her curiosity," Koren agrees, taking a seat beside her husband and nodding to Maggie.

"The names are what interests her most," says Maggie off-handedly. "People around here are either really creative or really basic."

Travers nods in agreement. "You're either going to find a John or a Xzayvian around here." He likes to think he and Koren managed to choose relatively normal names for their children.

(Although their multitude of nicknames beg to differ.)

But Travers is grateful to have one of the biggest worries in his life be if he gave his children normal enough names.

(Although the fear of them going into the Games never quite leaves his mind.)

His Games lasted a whole three days, and he only landed one kill through the whole thing. It was hardly a traumatizing experience, especially since Travers had killed people on the streets of 8 before he'd ever been Reaped.

(Although it hurt more with that girl from District 10.)

However, when Travers looks upon Maggie or Henley or Aki or Lin, all of those thoughts disappear, replaced with an overwhelming feeling of pride. He likes to think he has raised his children well, that they will all do some good in the world.

(Although for them to do good in the world, they have to make it through their teens, and everyone knows that is easier said than done.)

Travers knows one day he'll be gone, and so will Koren. The life expectancy in District 8 is not high. He knows one day it will be up to his children to remember him and Koren, even though the Capitol will surely be somewhat sad, he and Koren have never been very popular Victors.

(Although, if they were to die tomorrow, he has no idea what Henley would say.)

He loves his children, he really does. Maggie is headstrong. Lin is passionate. Aki is sweet. But Henley…Henley is different. Death has always interested her, making her a rather strange, morbid girl.

(Although one day she would get to understand death; Travers just fears what she might do in order to understand earlier.)

…

You would think by the time Gracyn is in her thirties that Capitol men would no longer want to sleep with her. That they would have moved on to younger, more attractive prey, such as Kasumi, Brice or Arthur.

But _noooo_.

And frankly, Gracyn is done with it. She's been done with it for years. And to make matters worse, the disgusting Capitolites can't leave Iara alone either. She stills vividly remembers the first night Iara came to her after an 'appointment'. It was during Brice's Games; both of their tributes were already dead. Iara had walked off the elevator, disheveled, and whispered to Gracyn, _"I'm not a virgin anymore."_

It's disgusting, it's appalling, it's absolutely sickening, yet Gracyn and Iara both know they cannot refuse. Gracyn's father and sisters were already killed as a punishment for her insolence.

And yet, Gracyn had still had the audacity to hope it would change when Graciela took office. Maybe Graciela would stop prostituting the Victors for their monetary benefit. Maybe Graciela would have some mercy, some sympathy.

But you can't be president of Panem without being an utter asshat, no matter how many cats you own or awkward jokes you tell. If you aren't, Capitolites will walk all over you. They'll just use you to get what they want, and then they'll throw you out in favor of someone with a stronger will. That's what happened to old Broderick Evangeline; he got soft, so they got rid of him, replaced him with Coriolanus Snow.

Gracyn lets out a sigh as she stares skyward, the sun glistening off the rolling fields of grain that surround this park.

Yes, in District 9, their graveyard is a park. The fountain still stands in the middle, still with the rows of graves, but only half of it is technically a cemetery. The other half houses some playground equipment and picnic tables for the rich families of District 9 to enjoy.

Gracyn has yet to decide whether it's sweet or awful that small children play in a graveyard. It's sweet to think that there can be upsides to anything, even a graveyard, yet a graveyard should be a place of mourning. It should a place where people go to pay their respects to the dead in silence, not while small children run around, laughing and playing. Gracyn can see both sides of the argument, but it's not like there's much she or anyone else can do about it.

She swings her legs back and forth like a bored child, waiting for Iara to arrive. The bench she sits on looks over the playground. A few girls and boys run around, playing tag and screaming about cooties. Gracyn remembers those days. Those days when she was a child, running around this very park with her sisters, Reese, Eliza and Terrah as her father watched them. Or sometimes it was a nanny. They had a lot of those, since her father was so often away on some sort of business venture.

At last she spots Iara entering the playground, looking tired but not unhappy. Iara is rarely truly unhappy. Oftentimes, she just hasn't been sleeping well.

Iara definitely has not been sleeping well. She has gotten in a solid three hours in the past four days, making her practically a walking zombie. But, this is a tradition she is determined to uphold. It means a lot to Gracyn, and it means a lot to her as well.

She flops down on the bench beside Gracyn. She should have brought coffee. Coffee would be helpful. Maybe she should go get coffee after this. There's that one really bakery that also serves coffee down by the market. She really should have stopped there on the way here. They have that one really good brew that they only serve in the summer…

"Iara," Gracyn says suddenly. "Don't fall asleep on me now." She laughs, but Iara can tell she's only half-joking.

"I…fell asleep?"

"Yes, I," Gracyn says, still laughing.

"Oh. Sorry about that. I just…haven't been sleeping much at all recently," Iara admits. "I'm just nervous about the Games. I don't want to watch another pair of tributes go in and die. Lia, Quentin, Alexandria and Rie were bad enough. Valentine and Cornell was worse. And then Flourish and Rylan…and Teva and AJ…and now another pair of tributes off to the slaughterhouse."

"Don't think like that," Gracyn chastises. "Think positive. Who knows, maybe this will be our year."

"Maybe," Iara amends noncommittally. Personally, she doesn't agree with Gracyn. It seems unlikely that they'll ever get lucky enough to take Victory, but it will surely happen again. It always happens again. Seeing as the Games will likely never stop, District 9 will always find away to gain another Victor, no matter how morbid. Iara doesn't know if she loves that or hates that. She loves it because it means one less tribute from 9 being lost, one less family to watch grieve. She hates it because it means the continuation of the Games. She hates it because that means it twenty-three other kids have to die. The Hunger Games is always a lose-lose.

Iara pulls her legs to her chest and rests her forehead on her knees. She is really wishing she had that coffee right about now. "…hey, Gracyn?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you wanna, like, go get some coffee? I know this really good place by the market." Iara crosses her fingers, hoping beyond hope that Gracyn will say yes. Right about now, she needs some caffeine in her system more than she needs air. And besides, hanging out at a half-graveyard, half-playground isn't exactly Iara's idea of a good time.

"Sure," Gracyn agrees casually.

"Cool," Iara says, jumping to her feet. She wobbles a little (courtesy of her lack of sleep) before grabbing Gracyn by the wrist and pulling her out of the graveyard. She can get that sleep when she comes down from her caffeine high which will surely ensue soon.

…

Celinda's head pounds as she stumbles through the graveyard, her head clenched tightly around a bottle of some sort of alcohol. She didn't bother to check what it was before she grabbed it on her way out of the house. She doesn't really care what kind of alcohol she drinks, as long as it means she doesn't have to think. The quicker is numbs her senses, the better.

She vaguely notices Rhett sitting on the edge of the fountain, staring at her with a bewildered yet unhappy look on his face. She pays him no attention. She pays the gravestones no attention. She pays nothing any attention. Celinda stopped paying things attention a long, long time ago. More than ten years it's been since Celinda was really, truly addicted to her alcohol. It took her a little over two years to become completely dependent on it, and she highly doubts that's going to change any time soon.

The sun beating down on her back is far too bright. She does have that bottle of anti-hangover stuff back home, but she put it in some cupboard and hasn't bothered to look for it since. She just stays in a constant state of hungover, yet still somehow drunk because she is. Always. Drinking.

"Celinda," Rhett says quietly, his voice slightly monotone. They've this conversation ever since the first year Rhett mentored. "Are we really going to do this again? Can't you just stay sober for five minutes of your life?"

"You try it," Celinda slurs, plopping down on the ground beside Rhett's legs. She lets her head loll back and rest on the cold stone of the fountain and takes a deep breath. She still smells the slaughterhouse she woke up in two days ago. "I been havin' alcohol fer so long…"

"All grammar mistakes aside," Rhett says tightly, his eyes fiery with anger. "You promise. Every year, you promise to stay sober. And every year, you don't! Every year you stumble in here with a bottle in your hand, complaining of an awful hangover! When are you going to learn this isn't how you should live your life?"

"Don' go tellin' me how ta live m'life, Rhett," Celinda says, rolling her eyes. She pulls the lid off of her bottle and takes a long swig, satisfied with the slight burning sensation it leaves behind in her mouth. "I can live howeva I wanna live. You're not my _mom_. My mom's _dead_."

Rhett purses his lips, silent for a moment, apparently choosing to ignore the remark about Celinda's mother. And yeah, Celinda's mother is dead. So is her father. They both caught some sort of disease when Celinda was nine, and bang, bang, they're dead. "It's not healthy. One of these days, you're going to give yourself alcohol poisoning. Or maybe you'll just drink yourself to death."

"Hope I do," Celinda murmurs. She lifts her bottle and takes another drink, savoring the taste before she swallows thickly.

"You can't just die, Celinda!" Rhett exclaims, making wild hand gestures. "You can't just keep drinking until you don't wake up!"

"Why can't I?" Celinda asks, her eyes half closed, her head still facing the sky. _Just…not waking up sounds like a pretty damn good deal to me._

"I don't want to be left alone in the Victors' Village with no one to keep me company but Tierra and Salen! You can't—you can't just—die!" Rhett cries angrily.

"Not like it'd matta much." Celinda takes another long drink, leaving Rhett with plenty no one would care if she died. Rhett said it himself; the only reason he doesn't want Celinda to die is because he doesn't like District 10's other living Victors. It's clear to see that Celinda doesn't matter to much of anyone.

"Goddammit, Celinda!" Rhett shouts, angrily snatching Celinda's bottle from her hand and throwing it at the nearest headstone. It smashes on impact, spraying the nearby ground with the still-unnamed alcohol. "You have no idea how much I would miss you if you died!"

Celinda has no fucking clue how much Rhett doesn't want her to die. She's his only friend left in the world, and he doesn't like to watch his friends suffer. To watch Celinda slowly waste away every day, drinking herself half to death each night. He hates it. Celinda is his friend. Rhett's friends shouldn't have to suffer. He knows Celinda saw a lot of shit in the arena, but that doesn't give her the right to make everyone around her watch her life this.

"Hey!" Celinda exclaims, slightly late on the uptake. She stares at the shattered remains of her bottle and bolts to her feet. "Thanks, Rhett. Ya just wasted some perfectly good alcohol." She shoves her hands into her pockets and starts to stumble out of the graveyard, quickly taking her hands back out to steady herself.

Rhett watches her go, his anger quickly dissipating. He's a terrible friend. Celinda is the only person left in the world who sees him as equal. Tierra and Salen see him as an accomplishment. The Capitolites see him as something to fuck and then throw out. His family sees him as a money-making tool, a way to dig the Rileys out of their pit of debt. But Celinda has always seen him as an equal, as a friend. Celinda still cares for him beyond the obligation Tierra and Salen have toward him, beyond his clinical relationship with his mother and father. Celinda still means something to him, and this is how he repays her. Sure, she's always drunk, but she's also always open to listen to him vent. And Rhett would be lying if he said he hadn't gotten plastered with her a time or two.

Sometimes it felt good to forget. Sometimes it felt good to just…not have to think. But Rhett isn't nearly as addicted to the feeling as Celinda is. He still has a life to live. Celinda threw that down the drain years ago.

…

Brice has been wearing a mask for so long he can't tell it apart from his own face anymore. The longer he wears it, the less human he feels. He's just an actor, constantly putting on a show, never getting an intermission or even a moment to rest. He is always something he is not, and he has been that thing for so long he can't tell if he is or isn't.

He can't stop thinking of what led him here, to sobbing on the floor of his bathroom, having his weekly mental breakdown.

See, way back when Brice got Reaped as a terrible-abused fourteen-year-old boy from District 11 for the One-Hundred-Forty-Eighth Hunger Games, he made a decision. He was going to be the underdog that no one ever expected. He was just a stupid, chatterbox fourteen-year-old, definitely not a threat. Yes, that's what he was.

And now Brice can't tell the difference. He talks and he talks and he talks, and he hates it. But this is the image he has to uphold, and if anyone ever found out he was lying, well…he doesn't want to see the consequences.

He learned a long, long time ago that no one had any interest in what he had to say. But instead of falling silent, he talked more. He talked and he talked and he talked, and no one ever heard him. He could walk into a room full of people, loudly declare he had just committed mass murder, and everyone would just say, "That's good Brice."

The Brice Kylar is dead. But Brice doesn't really understand the new one either. The fake, chatterbox, shell of a human being who was horribly traumatized before he was ever forced to kill someone. And he's such a good actor that no one ever notices.

But Brice doesn't know if he's acting anymore. He's so used to going unheard that he talks about anything that comes mind, and everyone just tunes him out. He's talked for hours about all the things his parents did to him when he was younger, and all Meadow has said is, "That's nice, Brice." Or "Mm-hmm."

He's invisible, but he's not. His mask is there, people can see it, but they don't see past it. They assume he's just a stupid, one-dimensional human being who talks about puppies, kittens and rainbows all day.

He's not.

Or maybe he is.

Brice doesn't know anymore.

He doesn't know anything anymore.

Late at night, when he's alone in his house, he breaks down. He sobs in the darkness of the hallway closet, trying to piece together his broken psyche, but he knows there is no hope for it.

Maybe it's best if he just stops thinking and becomes the dumb chatterbox the Capitol fell in love with six years ago. Maybe he should just sink into that oblivion and stop fighting to take this mask off, to find some way to make people listen to him, why will nobody ever listen to him?! Why do his words always have to fall on deaf ears, why does he keep talking when he knows no one will ever hear his words?

So, yeah, that's the reason Brice called Meadow earlier and told her he has the stomach flu. And, yes, he did throw up earlier, but not because he's sick. At least, not disease-sick. He's sick of life. He's sick of pretending. He's sick of acting and hiding behind a mask that is slowly becoming his face. The longer he hides the less easy it will become to take it off.

And that is how the great Brice Kylar, killer of five tributes, two of which were Careers, ends up on the floor of the upstairs bathroom on the left of the staircase in his house, sobbing violently and occasionally throwing up in the toilet. He's not okay, and he's said it before, but no one listens.

No one listens. No one ever hears. Even Meadow, who has a helping hand extended at all times, extends it to others.

Because everyone knows the cute little chatterbox is just fine, don't they? Yes, he's fine! Why would you ever worry about him? He's just talking about puppies and running through flower fields. He's definitely not talking about his horrible traumas from his childhood or how he has weekly mental breakdowns.

Yes, Brice Kylar is fine, can't you tell? What? He's screaming? Oh well, he's probably screaming in joy. That's kind of Brice's thing, right?

Meadow Quince can definitely tell. Brice is the least of her worries. Because her little girl, Floryn, also has the stomach flu and is sick in bed. She's secretly grateful that Brice came down with it too, just so she can stay home with her daughter. Not only is Floryn sick, but she's been being bullied at the park, which Meadow will never stand for. But Floryn is adamant that she can handle it, that she's tough like her mother.

So here Meadow sits on the couch while her daughter sleeps fitfully upstairs, idly flipping through T.V. channels.

The first shows off an impressive birds' eye view of a golden forest in what appears to be District 1. It's some sort of documentary about District 1's Victors.

The second channel is some Capitol talk show. The woman on the left, dressed in a rainbow blazer and tank top, is in the middle of saying how she _just can't wait_ for the Reapings next week. Meadow stares her down for moment, knowing full well that the rainbow woman can't see her, and that this was probably pre-recorded. Meadow just can't imagine being excited about the Games. Next year, Floryn will be eligible…the thought sends a shiver coursing down Meadow's spine.

The third channel is showing a tour of the Tribute Center. A voiceover is currently explaining what the tributes do on the climbing course, complete with someone acting it out.

Meadow changes the channel a few more times before settling on a locally made one about gardening. She's sure it's strictly monitored by the Capitol, probably made by Capitolites, just filmed in District 11, but at the moment she doesn't care. She just wants something mindless to play in the background while she rests.

_Maybe I should go check on Brice, _Meadow wonders, but eventually decides against it. If Brice needed something, he would call. Brice may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he is independent enough to figure it out if something goes wrong.

Satisfied for the time being, Meadow relaxes against the couch cushions, only half-listening the gardening show on the T.V., but hearing enough to catch, "And these beautiful geraniums, courtesy of our lovely Capitol…"

…

Kalina hasn't gone to the graveyard before the Games in decades.

No, instead she makes a trip when she returns from the Capitol. Or shortly thereafter, once the funerals have been held and the tributes have been laid to rest.

She goes to apologize.

She goes to their graves, tells them she's sorry she failed them, sorry that she didn't do more. She promises she'll be better next year.

But then next rolls around, and nothing changes. Kalina is stuck in a sick cycle that has lasted almost fifty years. She promises she'll try harder next year, and then she inevitably doesn't.

Kalina sits on her porch, looking up at the starry sky. It's quite late, since the sun sets late in the summer, but Kalina doesn't regret staying up. Looking at the stars is much more worth it than staring at a lifeless fountain surrounded by hundreds of graves. Stars are pretty and full of life. Cemeteries are just a reminder that Kalina always fails.

One day, she supposes, District 12 will have to win again. But she's sure that by time, she'll be long dead. She's already sixty-seven. Even with piles of money at her disposal, there are only so many places in District 12 to get medical care, and Kalina doubts that she can just call a train to take her to the Capitol.

A gentle wind blows through the air, making the evening slightly cooler than usual for a night in June. The smell of general death and misery that wafts from the Seam doesn't reach the Victors' Village. (Or just Victor's Village, as it is in District 12). Instead, Kalina can smell nature. It doesn't smell like coal dust. It doesn't smell like human suffering. It smells like a camping trip high in the mountains, looking through the trees to the stars.

Kalina takes a deep breath, rocking back and forth in her chair. It's a peaceful night, here in the Victor's Village of District 12. Kalina may be all alone, but she is no stranger to that. She doesn't mind the isolation, and she can always just go into town if she wishes. Not that she often does, she gets the most pitying looks when she does.

That makes her angry. Those people from the Seam, who are literally starving and dropping like flies every winter, have the audacity to look at her with pity in their eyes! Sure, she's old, but that's more than anyone else in the District 12 can say. They all die before they turn thirty from coal dust inhalation or mine collapses. Kalina has never once stepped into a coal mine, and she never plans to. She has no need to; she's not just filthy rich, she's _disgustingly_ rich. She used to give money to people from the Seam when she was younger—they are her people, after all—but she has since stopped doing that, save for a few close friends.

Kalina isn't a hero. No one has ever called her one. But she has never liked to see so many people starving and losing family members so quickly and easily. She never had the money to help them while she was a child, but the moment she won, that was what she was going to do with her money.

And she did. For a time. Now, she's more or less retired from the great monetary savior job. She's just the old lady who no one is sure if she actually won the Hunger Games or not. It's not like anyone in 12 who saw it happen is still alive.

**A/N: So I'm going to guess most people just scrolled down to view the tribute list (and I don't blame you, I'm guilty of doing it) but please do read the chapter. I put a lot of work into this one. Also, the math on how many tributes have died are probably wrong, because I didn't do anything special for the Quarter Quells where there were more tributes :/.**

**1\. Favorite mentor? (excluding Arthur and Macy)**

**2\. Least favorite mentor?**

**3\. If one of your tribute(s) got in, do you think they'll get along with their mentor?**

**4\. Thoughts on our mentors in general?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: are you excited for the Reapings to start?**

**My answer: I mean, I guess? Reapings are more interesting than prologues, but I'll probably burn out quick. That's what has happened in years of past.**

**(and yes, Ave's parents did name their twin daughters Avenue. Why? I don't know.)**

**Okay, okay, here's the tribute list. Do be sure to check the whole list, as many tributes had to be moved to different districts. In case you're wondering, mentor #1 mentors the girl, and mentor #2 gets the boy. **

**List:**

**District 1:**

**Female: Calista Abbey, 18 / Team Shadow**

**Male: Shad Marcum, 18 / Tyquavis**

**Mentor #1: Divinity 'Vin' Faust, 13**

**Mentor #2: Neapolitan Gregorovich, 51**

**District 2:**

**Female: Scoria Primer, 18 / AlexFalTon**

**Male: Wonder Hammerfort, 12 / 20**

**Mentor #1: Hestia Olympia, 25**

**Mentor #2: Will Slade, 38**

**District 3:**

**Female: Lana Meadows, 14 / ****SchroedingersKneazle**

**Male: Darwin Abner, 16 / Thorne98**

**Mentor #1: Thalia Eames, 42**

**Mentor #2: Rocket Sanchez, 24**

**District 4:**

**Female: Ottilie Blackwell, 15 / EvilPencilBox**

**Male: Bayou Hacksom, 18 / Thorne98**

**Mentor #1: Arthur Singlewave, 18**

**Mentor #2: Chance Rovaeny, 28**

**District 5:**

**Female: Liesel Leenheer, 17 / Dospacito**

**Male: Sterne Colvin, 14 / Tyquavis**

**Mentor #1: Solaryn Duke-Dare, 45**

**Mentor #2: Ave Samenfield, 42**

**District 6:**

**Female: Jayce Dotter, 18 / LordShiro**

**Male: Larch Tyre, 18 / DragonoftheStars1429**

**Mentor #1: Kasumi Karakara, 20**

**Mentor #2: Dixie Spoke-Wheeler, 66**

**District 7:**

**Female: Eris Rowan, 13 / DarkColdSummer**

**Male: Mercury Harrigan, 16 / Dospacito**

**Mentor #1: Macy Barker, 15**

**Mentor #2: Larken Atkinson, 36**

**District 8:**

**Female: Lyndie Franklin, 12 / Of Myths and Men**

**Male: Navarro Lune, 12 / 20**

**Mentor #1: Koren Smitty-Perez, 50**

**Mentor #2: Travers Smitty-Perez, 47**

**District 9:**

**Female: Ainsley Platte, 14 / EvilPencilBox**

**Male: Everett Reed, 17 / Tempus Time**

**Mentor #1: Iara Clarion, 22**

**Mentor #2: Gracyn Rupsis, 32**

**District 10:**

**Female: Tamarah 'Tam' Colt, 16 / Thorne98**

**Male: Afandina Hariri, 17 / LordShiro**

**Mentor #1: Celinda Oxford, 27**

**Mentor #2: Rhett Riley, 25**

**District 11:**

**Female: Ashe Illyrian, 14 / Team Shadow**

**Male: Quinn Bayers, 17 / Guesttwelve**

**Mentor #1: Meadow Quince, 40**

**Mentor #2: Brice Kylar, 20**

**District 12:**

**Female: Ishtar Marmaduke, 18 / LordShiro**

**Male: Geo Stryker, 15 / Tyquavis**

**Mentor #1: Kalina Nightingale, 67**

**I'm honestly sorry if your tribute didn't get in, but keep in mind that I literally had **_**fifty-two **_**submissions for this story. That's thirty-eight subs that I can't take. Besides, I chose tributes I look forward to writing and think I can write well. So I do apologize if your tribute(s) wasn't taken.**

**Speaking of tributes not getting in; on November Fourth, I will delete all the forms that weren't accepted. If you would like your form back (for a tribute that wasn't accepted!), PM me **_**before**_** November Fourth and I'll send it to you. **


	6. Final Bid for Control

_Ishtar Marmaduke, 18_

"_I don't want money, I don't want presents, I don't want empty words of kindness, I just want my love."_

_(Three Years Before the Reapings)_

Ishtar's parents have forgotten her birthday.

_Again_.

It's not like Ishtar is surprised. Her parents rarely speak to her at all, leaving her in the care of nannies even when she's fifteen fucking years old today, she can survive on her own.

When she was thirteen, her parents forgot for the first time. And she had been naïve enough to think they were planning a surprise party, like in all the movies from the Capitol. Someone feels bitter because they feel like their family and friends have forgotten their birthday, and then they come home and surprise, surprise, their friends haven't forgotten! There's presents and cake and games and all the previous bitterness goes out the window.

Instead, all Ishtar gets is to sit alone in the expansive kitchen and eat a three-day-old cake. She bought it as a fail-safe, hoping to get something better, yet here she is. She didn't even bother to cut herself a slice of the cake; it's not like anyone else is around to eat it too.

She sullenly stares at the white icing, the words _Happy Birthday_ cut off by fork marks. It reads, _Happy Bi thd y. _It looks as lifeless as she feels.

"Ish!"

Ishtar looks up, her eyes landing on Jayce with a different, much livelier cake in her hands. Her face lights up in excitement as she pushes her chair back forcefully, knocking it over with a loud_ thud_, but in her excitement, Ishtar doesn't even notice. "Jayce!"

"Happy birthday!" Jayce exclaims, placing the cake on the table and pulling off the lid. Ishtar glances at the cake, noting the meticulously done frosting flowers dotting the surface in a rainbow of colors. A grin spreads across her face as she reads the words _Happy Birthday Ishtar!_. "I hope you like the cake."

"…that must have cost you a lot of money," Ishtar says quietly. She knows Jayce is poor, much too poor to afford a cake like this. Although, she can't exactly complain—she'd rather have a cake from Jayce than a cake from herself. Hell, she'd take a pile of flaming shit as long as it came from Jayce.

"It's worth it," Jayce proclaims. "Especially since I can take the leftovers home and surprise my family."

Ishtar smiles wider and pushes her own, much sadder cake away, dropping the fork into the sink. _Look at her, to always think of everything_, Ishtar thinks, practically melting to a puddle when Jayce's smile grows wider. God, she'd do anything to make Jayce smile. "It's good to see you, Jayce."

"We saw each other yesterday, Ish," Jayce says jokingly, laughing and shaking her head. "But it's good to see you too." She glances around the kitchen, seemingly taking note of the lack of other people, decorations, or anything pertaining to a birthday in general. "I take it your parents forgot again."

"…yeah," Ishtar answers after a moment, staring down at her lap and messing with the tablecloth. "I missed you."

"…again, I came over just yesterday." Jayce looks at Ishtar oddly, cocking her head to the side like a confused puppy, but Ishtar knows Jayce could never be confused about anything. She's just so, so smart. Ishtar also knows Jayce could really go places with that brain of hers, but she's not getting anywhere if she's starting from District 12. A glass ceiling hangs over the entire district that no one is strong enough to break through.

"I know," Ishtar says, knowing how much she looks like a lovesick puppy but really not caring. She sees that look in Jayce's eyes. Jayce is just as lovesick as Ishtar is. "I still missed you."

Jayce laughs a little, taking a seat across the table from Ishtar, two forks and a knife in her hand. She carefully cuts Ishtar a piece. "You know, my dad is working on another train plan. I don't know what he plans to do with it, but it's amazing. You should see it. It could really change Panem, you know? It's a shame no one will ever see it."

Ishtar disagrees but keeps quiet. If someone were to see it, then Jayce and her family might have to leave District 12. It's not that she doesn't want Jayce to be happy but…but Jayce would be much happier staying here in District 12 with Ishtar by her side. And so, eager to change the topic, Ishtar says, "What do you want to do tonight? I'm sure my parents won't come home until late."

Jayce grins and takes a bite of her cake, the bright blue frosting smearing on her lips. God, Ishtar wants to kiss her. Like, really bad. That would make this the best birthday ever, parents or no parents. Actually, scratch that. It would be so much better without her parents present to fuck everything up.

And do they do? Well, they certainly don't end kissing each other on the couch, climbing onto the roof to look at stars and end up kissing each other again. No, of course not. Why on Panem would you think that?

…

_(Two years before the Reapings)_

This is the worst birthday Ishtar has had yet.

No, not because her parents forgot (and yeah, they did, but that's not the point). No, not because the cake makes her sad. No, not because her parents just fired one of her favorite nannies.

It's all because of Jayce. Fucking. Dotter.

She ruins Ishtar's day—no, her entire life, in one little sentence:

"I'm moving to District 6 tomorrow."

Jayce goes on to explain why they're going to District 6, something about her father's train plan getting picked up by the Capitol, but Ishtar doesn't hear any of it. She stares blankly at the ground beside Jayce's shoes, having a rather difficult time processing this new development.

This can't be happening. Jayce can't just…just leave! That's not—that doesn't—it's not—the only way you leave District 12 is to get Reaped for the Hunger Games! You don't get to—to—to go to _District 6_, of all places, just because your father has a cool train plan! Hell, Jayce's dad has come up with hundreds of plans, and this has never happened before!

But Ishtar doesn't say anything. She just continues to stare, unblinking, at Jayce's shoes. This must be a dream. Yes, it must be a dream. Any moment, Ishtar is going to wake up, safe in bed, and she can go tell Jayce about her silly dream and Jayce will laugh and tell her that she would never, never ever leave. They love each other! Jayce can't just leave! She has to stay here—she _has_ to! Ishtar loves her. She loves her so much it makes her head spin and her heart pound. Doesn't Jayce realize that? "I…"

"I'm sorry, Ishtar," Jayce says, sounding sincere.

One part of Ishtar feels frozen with sadness. But another part is angry. Why does _Jayce_ get to leave District 12, but Ishtar has to stay here? It's not fair that Jayce gets to go somewhere new and Ishtar has to stay in boring, bleak District 12 while Jayce is off in District 6! What makes Jayce's family better than anyone else from District 12? That's right; nothing! So why do they get to leave, but Ishtar has to stay here? After all, the only thing that made life tolerable for Ishtar is that Jayce was always there.

"I…I…" Ishtar continues to stammer, her words stumbling out of her mouth. Nothing makes sense. Her fingers and toes are numb, and the feeling is spreading to the rest of her body. When at last her words stop rocketing out of her mouth in a torrent of gibberish, she whispers, "Let's make a pact."

Jayce looks at her skeptically. "…what kind of pact?"

"When we turn eighteen," Ishtar starts. "we'll both volunteer for the Games. That way we can see each other again." After all, the only way to leave District 12 is to get Reaped for the Hunger Games.

Unless you're Jayce Dotter, of course.

Jayce seems to contemplate it for a moment. "Okay." She smiles and pulls Ishtar into a hug, kissing the side of her head as she does so. "I love you, Ishtar."

"I love—" Ishtar's voice cracks. "I love you too."

She hopes that when Jayce pulls away, she can't see the tears in Ishtar's eyes. She doesn't know if they're angry tears or sad tears. Maybe they are a bit of both.

Jayce kisses Ishtar on the lips one last time before she whispers her a goodbye. Ishtar can hardly bring herself to answer it before Jayce leaves. Forever. Gone. Never again will Ishtar and Jayce curl up on the couch and watch a trashy Capitol movie. Never again will they climb onto the roof and kiss while searching for constellations in the sky. Never again will they just take a stroll through the market, where Ishtar can indulge and spoil the girl she loves. It's all gone. Done. Over. _Forever_.

Ishtar springs into action, running over to the take in the entry way and snatching up a (expensive) vase and hurling it at the wall. She grins in satisfaction when it shatters into a million pieces and falls to the ground. It feels like her heart. Destroyed beyond compare, beyond reason, beyond healing. Jayce left her. Jayce. Fucking. Left. Her. Jayce left her. Jayce doesn't love her. Jayce doesn't care. Jayce wanted to leave. She wanted to leave Ishtar.

More vases and other easily-breakable trinkets as thrown across rooms as Ishtar sobs, tears streaming down her face, sobs forcing their way out of her mouth. Finally when she hears her parents' car pull up outside does she run to her bedroom, slamming the door and throwing herself on the bed to sob some more.

From downstairs come her parents yells of anger of the mess Ishtar created. "Isidora, what have you done?"

Ishtar doesn't have the energy to tell them what the name of their only child is.

_Wonder Hammerfort, 12_

"_I just want peace."_

_(Three years before the Reapings)_

_**(TW for mentions of sexual abuse, attempted suicide, self-harm and suicidal thoughts)**_

Wake will be home soon. Wonder just knows it.

When Wake comes home, everything will be okay. Wake can save Wonder like no one else can. Wake can fix this. Wake will be home soon.

This is what Wonder keeps telling himself as he curls up on the couch in the dark, watching the T.V. screen with sheer panic in his eyes. Yoldan isn't home, but that doesn't mean Wonder isn't scared. If anything, Wonder is always scared.

His hands are tightly clenched around the edge of the couch, so much so that his knuckles have turned white. He leans forward in his seat as he watches Wake get up and quietly slit the throat of the boy from 1. A cannon booms as Wake moves on to the girl from 5, kneeling in preparation to slit her throat as well. He watches as the girl from 1 gets up and stares in shock at Wake. He watches, still as a statue and quiet as a mouse, as the girl from 1 locks her hands around Wake's throat, pressing her up against the Cornucopia. He watches as Wake splutters and chokes, screaming and pleading with Coin to let her go. He watches as Coin doesn't let her go, as the life slowly drains out of his only hope in the world, as Wake slowly dies—_pop!_

Coin drops Wake's body to the ground as a cannon fires. Wonder doesn't stick around to see the rest. He bolts to his feet, leaping nimbly over the couch and sprinting out the door wildly. His eyes dart around as he runs, his feet pounding against the carefully polished asphalt, tears streaming down his face.

Wake. Is. Not. Dead.

Wake can't be dead.

If Wake is dead then Wonder is all alone.

Wonder can't be alone. He just…he can't! Wake can't leave him here! He knows Wake just wanted to help him, but he still feels slightly…betrayed. Wake promised him she could come home. She promised. She _promised_ she would never leave him.

Wonder just keeps running, wondering if it's possible to run so long that he'll just die. His legs scream at him to stop, to slow down, but he doesn't. It feels like he's being chased by the ghost of Wake, who was alive just a few minutes ago.

The world tilts dangerously before Wonder, and the next thing he knows, his face is becoming rather acquainted with the cold, hard street. It grates along the side of his face, scraping at his skin, but Wonder hardly notices.

_This is the part where I wake up, _Wonder thinks, staring out into the darkness, unmoving despite the blood that is trickling down the side of his head. _This is the part where I wake up back at the house, with Wake safe. Wake is not dead. Wake is not dead. Wake…is…not…dead…_

He slowly sits up, the realization that this is not a dream, that this is his reality, sinking in. He just continues to stare off into space, feeling like he is sitting on a separate plain of existence from the rest of Panem.

The tears that continue to stream down his face is mingling with the blood, making it run faster until it is dripping from his chin onto his shirt. But Wonder doesn't notice. He doesn't really notice anything. It doesn't feel real. He doesn't feel alive. He doesn't feel dead. He doesn't feel anything.

…

_(Two Years Before the Reapings)_

The blood runs warm and fast down Wonder's wrist. His hands shake as he moves onto his other wrist, the scissors swaying back and forth in his grip, but he doesn't stop. Blood starts to drip from his other wrist as well. He breathes a sigh of relief and sets the scissors down, laying back against his teacher's desk. It's late. School ended hours ago. Yoldan will be looking for him.

But by the time anyone finds him, it will be too late. He will have bled out. He will be dead. He will get exactly what he wants. Freedom. Safety. Release. This is his final bid to take control, and he will not allow anyone to screw it up.

Okay, maybe in order to do that, he should have closed the door first. Wonder carefully gets up, finding his legs shaky and his vision slightly blurry. He stumbles across the room and shuts the door before staggering back to his teacher's desk and draping himself across the wooden surface. He stares at the silly glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, shifting his head around. He likes stars. Stars are pretty. He used to look at stars with Wake…

He likes Wake too. But Wake's dead. That's why he's here. Because Wake is dead. He misses Wake. Wake was nice. Wake wanted to help him. He wishes Wake wasn't dead. If Wake wasn't dead, he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be bleeding out on his teacher's desk at his school, scissors stained red sitting on the ground. But Wake isn't here. Wake's gone. She's been gone for a while now. Wonder can't remember how long it's been. Actually, he feels kind of light-headed. His vision is starting to get blurry at the edges. It makes seeing the stars harder. Wonder wants to see the stars. He misses seeing the stars. He wants to die under the stars. The real ones, not the ones he's looking at right now.

Wonder staggers to his feet, watching the ground teeter curiously before he stumbles toward the door and yanks it open. No one is around. The school is practically abandoned. He can see the doors to the playground. All he has to do is make that far, and then he can die under the stars. Someone once told him when you die, you become a star. He wants to become a star. Becoming a star sounds cool…

He makes it about halfway down the hallway before his legs give out. It's actually kind of funny. He starts to giggle in a heap on the floor, squirming as more blood soaks into his shirt. That should hurt, shouldn't it? It should definitely hurt to press on the cuts.

He catches a glimpse of the stars when the door to the playground opens. The stars are pretty. Wonder can't wait to be a star.

"Wonder."

The one word startles him enough that he makes an effort to lift his head. He can barely make out the silhouette of someone kneeling in front of him. He thinks their lips are moving, but he can't tell.

"Wonder." He hears it again, trying to figure out what it means. He should know that word…oh. It's his name. Someone is saying his name. "Oh, my god."

And then someone is picking him up, bridal style, and running through the halls of the school. The movement makes Wonder even more light-headed. His blood continue to drip from the slits on his wrists, trickling down his fingertips and plopping onto the ground. He's leaving a trail. A trail for someone to find him…but he's already been found. He doesn't want to be found. He wants to be a star. He wants to be dead.

"Stay with me, Wonder!"

He really, _really_ doesn't want to do that. He stares blearily up at the face of his 'savior', noting that they're probably a girl. _Maybe it's Wake, come to take me to the other side…_he thinks as he drifts off, hopefully for the last time.

…

_(Six Months Before the Reapings)_

"Come on, boy." Yoldan's tone is always a good indicator of what is going to happen when they get home, but Wonder usually has a pretty good clue. It's the same thing over and over again, because Yoldan apparently does not get tired of raping him day after day after day. Wonder has learned not to fight back. He has learned to just let it happen. He's used to it. Not that it isn't a problem, but there is only so much an eleven-year-old can do about it.

Wonder just sighs and lets Yoldan start to drag him down the steps of the school. Three times he has tried to end his own life. Three times he has failed. Three times he has gone back to the same old routine as if nothing ever happened. Three times, and Panem knows there will probably be more.

"Mr. Hammerfort?"

Wonder looks up, unsure of if Mr. Stonehold is addressing him or Yoldan. Mr. Stonehold—or Rupert, as he usually asks to be called—is one of the few people left in the world that Wonder has any sort of relationship with. Him and Jilda, Wake's girlfriend from way back…well, they're the only people that Wonder can put even a tiny piece of his trust into. Not that he has much left to hand out.

"I was going to ask Wonder to stay late today and help me with something," Rupert continues, looking at Wonder instead of Yoldan. Wonder can't help the small spike of fear that scream at him. _What if? _His mind screams. _What if Rupert is finally going to show his true colors and he's going to hurt you just like Yoldan and what if he was lying about his old girlfriend and what if what if what if?_

"Sorry," Yoldan says, not sounding the least bit sorry. "but Wonder has something going on this afternoon."

"Oh, yes," Rupert says. "Like being attacked by you?"

Yoldan apparently has the audacity to look affronted. "I would never. Would I, Wonder?"

Wonder weighs his options for a moment. On one hand, he could say no and nothing would change. On the other hand, he could say yes and potentially get help. In the few seconds that follow, Wonder feels faced with an ultimatum of far too expansive proportions for a child of eleven-years-old (not that he has really been a child for many years).

At last, he gains the courage to say, "No, I think you—" his voice cracks, and he falters. "I think you…w-would."

Rupert smiles at him sincerely, a look of pride on his face.

"Oh, please," Yoldan growls, tightening his grip on Wonder's hand. "Like I would ever hurt one of my children—"

"I do believe your first child is dead, yes?" Rupert says innocently, taking a step forward. "Wake Hammerfort, died in the One-Hundred, Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games? I've seen her gravestone."

Yoldan falters. "Yes. Yes, of course. Wake died years ago, and I still would never hurt my remaining child!"

"That's not true," Wonder mutters.

Yoldan rounds on him. "Come, boy. We are leaving. You're going to have to move schools and—"

The next thing Wonder knows, Rupert has punched Yoldan in the face, sending the latter man tumbling the ground in a heap. Yoldan retaliates with a punch to Rupert's nose. So Wonder doesn't think; he just bolts. He leaves the two men brawling in the courtyard and runs toward Jilda's house, hoping beyond hope that she is home. When he bursts through her door, looking more haggard than usual, she appears from the kitchen. "…Wonder? What are you doing here? What's wrong?"

"I—Rupert and Yoldan—fighting—punching—blood—" Wonder stammers, sinking to his knees. He's always hated fighting, hated confrontation.

Jilda pulls him into a hug and comforts him.

Later that night, when the T.V. announces that Rupert Stonehold has been arrested for the unprovoked murder of Yoldan Hammerfort, Wonder starts to sob once again. He doesn't know if it's from relief or mourning.

_Lana Meadows, 14_

"_There's always a wild side to an innocent face."_

_(Two Days before the Reapings)_

Lana is ninety point nine percent sure her family used to live in District 10. Maybe decades ago the Meadows family migrated that far, all the way from District 10 to District 3 for whatever reason. Maybe it's because of her mother, who has always been the brains of her family's operation. Maybe it's just because the Capitol decided to uproot them. But for whatever reason, they're here now. And Lana really doesn't mind.

District 3 is…well, not very pretty, but it's not the worst place to live. Lana has seen District 6 on T.V. before, and she can't imagine living there. They say the pollution is so bad there that everyone dies early and you can't even see the sky at night. District 3 may be an industrial place, but it's nothing like that.

There's nothing to say Lana's family isn't well off or happy. Sometimes, Lana just longs for a different place, a different life she could live. Her life is monotonous and generally very…life-ey. She hangs out with her friends and her dogs and her siblings. She goes to school and does her best.

Of course, the homework currently staring her down is certainly _not_ her best, but there is not much she can do about it. It's just hard to make herself focus long enough to write out an entire essay. And she wouldn't even _be_ here if she hadn't spent so long messing around with her friends in english class. She would be hanging out somewhere fun, instead of wasting her time with a stupid english essay. It's not even on an interesting topic. Lana couldn't care less about famous Capitolite movie directors! All of the movies that the Capitol makes are ridiculous anyways. How can they expect her to write an entire three pages praising people who write scripts that talk about the amazingness of the Capitol every five seconds? Although, the higher-ups probably demand that of them. After all, everything on T.V. promotes the amazingness of the Capitol. Even the cartoons she sometimes watches with her little sister, Rosie.

Those cartoons are currently playing in the living room, making it even harder to focus on Lana's essay. Maybe she should just take a little break. After all, she has plenty of time to get it done. It's only four o'clock. The essay isn't due until fifth period in three days. If all else fails, she can finish it at lunch.

So Lana stands up and creeps into the living room, spotting Rosie on the floor, watching the T.V. with her full attention on the screen. Rosie is certainly naïve for a nine-year-old, but Lana doesn't really mind. It's not Lana herself is the most mature fourteen-year-old in the world, but at least she understands what the Hunger Games are.

"Ah-ah, Lana," comes the voice of Lana's mother from the doorway of the kitchen.

"Damnit," Lana swears under her breath, slowly turning around. Her mother holds her essay with its all of three lines written rather sloppily up for the whole world to see. Rosie remains oblivious on the floor in the front of the T.V. "I was going to do it! I was just taking a break! You know I'm not nearly as good with words as I am with numbers." That is one skill that is useful in District 3; those who speak in numbers instead of words are prioritized much more than those who are word-savvy, like Lana's older brother. But Lana is good with her numbers and she knows it. But words is where she hits a little bit of a blockade. They just don't make any sense. She has tried to understand words and letters, but _x_ only makes sense if it's a variable.

"Lana, you know the rules. Homework comes first," her mother says reproachfully, pressing the paper into Lana's hands.

"I know, I know!" Lana exclaims, crossing her arms across her chest. "And I'm going to do it!"

"Good," her mother says, watching Lana enter the kitchen before heading upstairs.

"Later," Lana mutters, setting the paper down on the table. She's got more than enough time to get it done. She'll even get a whole day off to do it after the Reapings on Thursday, since that's one of the only days in the whole year they get off. Of course, there are a few days around the time of Capitolmas, but getting off school for a random day here and there is always appreciated.

She dashes out of the kitchen and up the stairs, disappearing into the room that she and Rosie share before the shutting the door. She'll get that essay done on Thursday. She has absolutely nothing to worry about.

…

_(The Day of the Reapings)_

Lana and her older brother, Zack, hop in line. Lana fidgets nervously with the hem of her dress, thinking of her unfinished essay sitting back home. She told her mother it was done, which means she has to finish it in secret. Oh well. She'll be just fine. As long as none of her friends or her brother get Reaped. She doubts she'll still have to do the essay then. Surely she'd be excused from any previous assignment if Zack was going to be sent into the Hunger Games.

She barely feels the small prick from the Peacekeeper, her mind clearly on other things. She'll admit, she's worrying a little bit about that essay. Maybe it would been easier if she had gotten it done when it was first assigned. Maybe then she wouldn't be worrying quite as much. But Lana has it covered; she's good at cramming things in at the last second, and if that is what it takes to get this essay done, then so be it. She'll get it done.

She heads toward the fourteen-year-olds section, wishing she was fifteen instead so she could stand with her best friend, Marta. Instead she just finds her friends from school. She sees the fear in their eyes and wonders what exactly they're so worried about. It's not like any of them will be Reaped. Almost no one at her school has to take out tesserae. The likelihood that they'll get Reaped is some number so small Lana has never bothered to calculate it. She could, if she wanted, but she doesn't need to. She knows it's such a slim chance that there is no need to worry in advance.

The square is filled with tense silence as the escort takes the stage. Lana starts mentally composing her essay, trying to think of different famous directors from the Capitol. _Well, there's Corinna Booker-Temperance, and Vesperas Stowe and…_

She vaguely notices the escort announcing the name of the female tribute and continues composing her essay. Only when one of the girls behind her pokes her in the back and whispers, "Lana, that's you," does she wake up.

And when she wakes up, she panics. She inhales sharply, looking around as if to confirm what the girl said. That slim, slim chance of being Reaped, a chance so low Lana never bothered to calculate it exactly, has been weaponized against her. She has just been Reaped for the Hunger Games. She's going into the Hunger Games. She inhales again, stumbling toward the stage, fighting back tears. This can't be happening. She's supposed to be worrying about an essay right now! Not worrying about dying in the Hunger Games…

"Welcome, Lana," the escort greets as if she didn't just sentence Lana to death. Lana knows her odds. Maybe the Capitol hasn't quite calculated it yet, but Lana sure has. In the darkness of the night when she simply can't sleep because of all of the numbers flying through her head, she calculates things. She calculated what her odds would be of the surviving the Hunger Games, and she does not like them.

Her heart hammers in her chest as if fighting to be freed. _Death is impatient_, says a voice in Lana's head.

She's just a child. Lana is just a child. She should be worrying about great movie directors from the Capitol and how to write them into an essay. She was worrying about that up until recently.

Is this really where Lana's life is going to end? This is certainly not what she expected. Three slips out of thousands, and the escort just happened to choose her name. Is this what every other tribute has felt like when their name came out of that miserable glass bowl? Since when has the prospect of death weighed so heavily down on Lana's shoulder?

By all accounts, Lana is not dead yet. She still has some fight in her, and she is willing to use it. She may not be brave. She may not be a hero. But damnit, she is a winner. And she's going to do every damn thing possible to get out of that arena with her life.

**A/N: Alrighty, one down, seven to go! I think we're starting off strong with these three wonderful tributes, courtesy of LordShiro, 20 and ****SchroedingersKneazle!**

**I do apologize if this isn't the best chapter, seeing as I've written it all in the past few hours and am currently home sick (on Halloween, no less!), but I think it turned out okay. **

**1\. Thoughts on Ishtar?**

**2\. Thoughts on Wonder?**

**3\. Thoughts on Lana?**

**4\. Who is your favorite?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: do you think any of these tributes are Victor material?**

**My answer: obviously, I can't answer this one. I do currently have a few Victor hopefuls, but I have not made any decisions regarding that front at the moment. What I really need is to write them before I make decisions on who is going to survive. **

**Next time, we will meet Everett, Lyndie and Ashe!**

**-Amanda**


	7. Wanderer Come Home

_Lyndie Franklin, 12_

"_Just because I'm often alone doesn't mean I'm lonely. I don't mind the isolation."_

_(Six Months Before the Reapings)_

_**(TW for mentions of rape, kind of graphic descriptions of death)**_

Lyndie isn't used to walking home alone. After all, everyone in her family knows just how dangerous it is for a girl like her to wander around alone, in the dark, on the streets of District 8. There are people who lurk around every corner, ready to do so many ungodly things to a little girl like Lyndie…

But Lyndie isn't "afraid", per say. She just isn't prepared to wander around all alone. Three of her older brothers are down with the flu, making Lyndie the only one to go to that particular factory today. And it being in the full-throat of winter, Lyndie is virtually alone.

It's not that Lyndie minds it. She tends to enjoy being alone, in fact. She just isn't the most social person in the universe. She likes her privacy, which is an unfortunate characteristic for a girl from District 8 to possess.

And besides, it's winter. It's cold outside. It's snowing. Lyndie herself is shivering as she walks, her hands jammed into the pockets of her too-small coat. Her family hasn't had the money for a new one since she was nine-years-old. It's weathered to the point of being nearly paper-thin, but there isn't much Lyndie can do about it. She just has to keep working, and maybe next year she'll get a new coat.

The sidewalk is slick with ice beneath Lyndie's feet, and her hand-me-down shoes provide little traction. What can you expect from a pair of shoes that has been worn by three boys before being given to her?

Lyndie nearly slips and falls as she walks. Once she catches herself on a nearby bench, she grins and starts to sliding down the sidewalk. It's rather dark out, it being nearly five o'clock at night, but Lyndie doesn't really mind. She slides her way across the ice on her worn, traction-less shoes, dodging the occasional obstacle in her way. She wishes there was a lake around here that would freeze, and that she could she skate on it. But there are no lakes in District 8; it's just an endless sea of factories and weather-worn buildings.

The lazy snowflakes that drift toward the ground make visibility even worse. It's dark. It's cold. It's late at night. Lyndie is in the middle of the poorest part of District 8, where most people use candles and kerosene lamps to light their homes at night. Besides, people tend to draw their curtains. No one wants to know what goes on late at night on the streets of 8, and the best they can do to avoid it is to obscure their view outside.

"Please! Don't hurt me!"

Lyndie pauses, looking around with her head tilted to the side. It's nothing new to for there to be shouts of people, begging for mercy all over District 8, but Lyndie has never heard one this close. She remains frozen for a moment, staring off into space and listening for more sounds of a struggle. All is silent, a rare occurrence for District 8, and it only makes Lyndie feel more on edge.

After a moment, she spurs her legs to start moving again. Home is just a few blocks away.

She passes by an alleyway and hears more noises, just to her left.

"Please! Sto—stop!" There's sounds of a scuffle, of whimpering and pain.

Lyndie freezes on the spot, hidden in the shadows created by the lack of streetlamps and moonlight. She listens for a moment, a knot of dread creeping into her stomach. After a moment, fear joins the knot, twisting and churning around and making her feel like she may be sick.

She takes in a deep breath and slowly turns her head to the side. Down the alleyway, she can just make out two figures on the ground, one on top of the other, shifting around in the snow.

Too afraid to move, Lyndie stands and watches for what feels like an eternity. She _knows_ the kinds of unspeakable things people want to do to little girls but…but…she never thought she'd _see_ it! Her breathing speeds up, which makes it infinitely harder to not be spotted, but it seems as if the victim's attacker is too…preoccupied, shall we say, to notice her presence at all.

All at once, it feels as if Lyndie's mind wakes up and her body comes back to life. And she does the only thing she can think of:

She bolts.

The ground is slick beneath her feet, making her slip and slide all over the place, but Lyndie keeps running. She runs until her home is in view and quickly skids to a stop, peering over her shoulder to make sure she hasn't been followed.

Nothing but the darkness of the night stares back at her. She breathes a sigh of relief and enters the house.

…

The next morning, Lyndie walks into the kitchen after a long, sleepless night and finds it nearly deserted, save for her mother. She takes a seat at the table and picks up the newspaper.

_**YOUNG GIRL, ESTIMATED TEN, FOUND DEAD IN ALLEYWAY NEAR DAUPER'S FACTORY, NO SUSPECT CAUGHT**_

Lyndie stares disbelievingly at the headline for a moment. _Dauper's Factory. _That's the factory she and her brothers work at. That's the body of the girl Lyndie saw last night.

For a long moment, Lyndie finds it difficult to breath. She finally takes a shaky breath and starts reading the article.

_Early this morning, an unidentified girl, estimated to be around the age of ten, was discovered dead in an alleyway seven blocks from Dauper's Factory. Her body shows signs of rape before she had her throat slit. Anyone with knowledge of a suspect or the identity of the victim is urged to step forward to help with the investigation._

Lyndie doubts a suspect will ever be caught. That's the way District 8's Peacekeepers work. Someone dies, they put an article in the newspaper, asking for information, then shelve the case the next day and never speak of it again.

"Mom," Lyndie says, setting down the newspaper and looking up to her mother. "Why do things like this happen? Why do people think that it's _okay_ to do that?"

Her mother looks up, seeming to take a moment to collect her words. "There are many people in this world who believe there is no God, Lyndie. They believe that they can do such unspeakable acts and that there will be no consequences. They are wrong, Lyndie. Comeuppance waits for them at the gates of Hell." A smile breaks across her mother's face, seeming odd in the wake of her dark words. "But good people like you and me will go up to heaven when we die. After all, we haven't done anything wrong." Lyndie is ninety-nine, point nine-percent certain she hears her mother add "yet" to the end of her sentence.

Lyndie can't make herself agree that both she and her mother are good people who have done nothing wrong. After all, just one night ago Lyndie allowed such unspeakable acts to be committed on a girl younger than she is. She saw it happening, perhaps could have even put a stop to it, and simply kept walking. Lyndie has never been the most lionhearted person, but she can't help but wonder if the pearly gates are what awaits her now.

"Is the Hunger Games our ancestors comeuppance, Mom?"

"Much too long of a comeuppance, Lyndie," her mother agrees. "But you know of the Capitol's opinion on religion of any form."

"Of course I do," Lyndie says in a rather matter-of-fact tone. "They consider religion treason."

Her mother nods slowly. "Yes. The only God we are to believe in is the President." She shakes her head, staring down at the table.

Another thought strikes Lyndie, while she is here with her mother's undivided attention. "Mother, what do you think will happen if I get Reaped next year?"

Her mother appears taken aback by the question. "I see no reason for you to worry about that."

"I've taken tesserae," Lyndie reminds her. "Ten times, my name is in there. So I'll ask again: what do you think would happen if I were Reaped next year?"

After a moment, her mother says, "I think you would try your hardest to return home to us."

"But in doing so, I would have to kill."

"God would be understanding of your fight for survival, honey." Her mother goes to stand, likely to check on Lyndie's brothers, but she calls out to stop her.

"What of the other twenty-three? Would they not deserve life as much I do?" Lyndie demands.

Her words have, unknowingly, backed her mother into a corner. "Like I said before, Lyndie—the Hunger Games is a punishment that has lasted far, far too long. So yes, none of the children who are forced into these Games deserve their deaths."

Lyndie opens her mouth to question her mother further, but instead is cut off by a shout from one of her brothers, "Mom! Grant's throwing up!"

"I'm coming!" With that, her mother leaves the kitchen without seemingly giving Lyndie second thought.

Lyndie sighs and folds up the newspaper. She sets it back on the table and heads toward the living room, where she has been camped for the past few days so she doesn't catch whatever her brothers have. Since she shares a room with the three sick ones, it's just easier to sleep on the couch instead of risking her getting sick too.

She flops down on the couch, letting her head fall back against the head rest. She shuts her eyes and heaves another sigh, wondering what exactly God would think of her if she were to become a murderer, no matter the reason.

_Everett Reed, 17_

"_I do what I have to do."_

_(Seven Years before the Reapings)_

"Everett, honey? I need to speak with you." It's a certain tone of voice Everett's mother uses that clues him into whatever she needs to tell him. It's a tone of voice Everett knows well, seeing as it's the tone she uses when something goes wrong. And things are _always_ going wrong in the Reed household. There's never enough food, enough money, enough of anything to go around, despite there being only three of them.

"Okay," Everett say slowly as he follows her into the kitchen. He's not sure what exactly has gone wrong this time, but surely something is amiss. "What is it?"

His mother is silent for a moment before she meets his eyes and says, "Everett, honey, I'm going to be having twins."

For one long, horrible moment, Everett can't breathe. He can't think. He can't move. He can't do anything. His mind just fizzles out, repeating that word over and over again in his head like a sick mantra.

_Twins. Twins. Twins. Twins. Twins. Twins. Twins._

"…you can't be serious," Everett finally manages to say, still staring blankly off into space, not meeting his mother's eyes.

"Honey, you're just going to love having siblings—"

"I don't care if I'm 'going to love them'!" Everett cries, making mocking air quotes. "Do you have any idea how much two little babies will cost us? We already don't have enough money for the three of us; what in Panem are we going to do with five mouths to feed?"

A few seconds pass before his mother says, "They're going to be your half-siblings."

"….what?" Everett asks, shock and disbelief written all over his face. His mother would never—she couldn't—she wouldn't—his mother is not a cheater! His mother would never, _never_ have sex with another man! She loves his father!...doesn't she?

"Honey, I—"

"Don't you 'honey' me!" Everett exclaims. "You had an _affair_?"

He's pleased by the shame in his mother's face. She has no _clue_ what she has done. Everett will probably have to drop out of school (not that he ever really enjoyed it in the first place). He's going to have to go to work. He's going to have to help provide for the products of his mother's selfishness.

He clenches his fists at his sides. "I trusted you," he says, his voice deathly calm yet still terrifyingly venomous. "_I trusted you_. I thought you wanted to keep this family together! You always said nothing could come between this family." Everett's voice cracks, either from anger or holding back tears. "Who would have guessed you would be the thing to break it apart?"

With that vehement note, Everett sweeps from the room, trying to hide the fact that he has tears in his eyes. His mother may very well have just ruined his life.

…

_(Four Years before the Reapings)_

If Everett's mother announcing her affair and her impending pregnancy was the biggest betrayal he has ever experienced, his father's reaction was the second biggest. His father did not share his anger; his father _forgave_ his mother for her infidelity, to damning their family to having more mouths to feed.

Everett feels alone for the first time in many, many years.

No matter how much of his general dislike for other human beings was always present, at least back then he had his parents. His parents, happy, not having betrayed him in the slightest. At least they were still there, not always worrying about Tricia and Tanner.

Tricia and Tanner are a bit of tricky spot for Everett. He can't quite decide if he hates them or not.

On one end of the spectrum, they made him drop out of school. They made him dedicate his life to work.

On the other, well, they're cute. They're little kids. They didn't ask for his mother to have an affair to bring them into existence. He can't blame them for his problems. If he's going to blame anyone, it should be his mother.

Still, Everett often finds himself wishing things could go back to the way it was. When he lays in bed after a long day of work (which is rare; he's usually up through the night anyway), he wishes he could turn back time.

It's not that Everett can't handle the work load. He could handle it in his sleep, with his arms tied behind his back while fighting a crocodile. He's pretty much exactly what a District 9 citizen should be—minus the lack of money, but honestly, who really cares about that? It's character that should count—strong, determined and dedicated. Everett is never one to back down from a challenge, after all.

So yeah, Everett can handle it. He doesn't really mind handling it, either. But late at night, when the stars hang high above his head, obscured by the ceiling, he wishes for the good old days. Before Tricia and Tanner. Before his mother cheated. Before everything went to hell.

…

_(Three Months before the Reapings)_

"Does he ever stop working?"

"I've never seen him anywhere but in the fields."

"Are we sure he's not a robot from District 3? He has about as much emotion as one."

"I would say I admire his dedication, but it's bordering on an obsession by this point."

Everett hears the whispers. Oh, does he hear them. But, he pretends they fall on deaf ears. It's all just a distraction, one big distraction. Why bother with those whispers when there is still work to be done, money to be earned and daylight to be used? There is always more work. There always be another job, another paycheck, another meal, another job, another job, another job—

Everett likes to go to work. When he's working, all he has to think about is the task at hand. He willingly and dutifully does whatever his supervisors tell him to, ignoring the whining and complaining of the workers around him. Sometimes, he even tells them to shut up. They're getting paid, aren't they? They're doing work, aren't they?

Even when he goes home, he doesn't really sleep. He'll stay up as long as he can, unable to make his mind stop buzzing. Tomorrow, there will be more work, there will be more money, and besides, who needs sleep? He can function just fine without it, thanks.

Unfortunately, he doesn't have the money for coffee. No, he more of stays awake on sheer spite alone. He's spiting the lack of food his family has. He's spiting his mother. He's spiting the people who whisper behind their hands when they think he can't hear them.

Oh, he will spite them all.

After all, when he gets up with the sun the next morning, there will be more work. There will be another job. There will be another task for Everett to set his sights on. Because once Everett Reed decides to do something, it will be done. At the price of his sleep schedule, his appearance and his sanity, sure. But it _will be done_, or else Everett will be damned.

And it will be record time, of course.

It's on a day like any other that someone poses a question that sounds offhand, but Everett can't get out of his head.

He's just standing there, dutifully working away in the wheat fields when one of his co-workers, a girl around his age—he never bothers with names, names are trivial and waste time—locks eyes with him from a few feet away. Everett glares back at her, pausing for only a second before going back to work.

"Do you ever stop?" the girl asks after a moment, making Everett jump.

Everett resolutely ignores her.

"Have you ever heard the saying 'all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy?'" she tries instead, still unsuccessful in her apparent attempts to make Everett talk to her.

Everett still refuses to even look up.

"All you ever seem to do is work. You don't even look like you _sleep_. What kind of life is that?" the girl continues. "Is that even a life at all?"

Everett, still not looking up, raises his left hand and flips her off.

The girl huffs indignantly and walks off.

Everett breathes in slowly, glad to have that annoying girl gone. He happily goes back to work, sinking back into his element. No one around him bothering him, pestering him with ridiculous questions and messing up his work ethic. He doesn't really understand why people like that girl even bother to work. It's obvious they are going nowhere in life. They have no dedication, no drive to succeed. They don't care. They're just here by obligation.

Yet, Everett can't get her words out of his head.

_Is that even a life at all?_

_Yes, _Everett decides. _Of course it's a life. I'm living it right now. I don't mind it. I _like_ living like this. _

Everett really just doesn't understand why people think he's so weird. So he works a lot. So he spends his entire day in the field. So he insults people to make them go away. So what if he's a bit of an asshole? It's not anyone else's problem.

Besides, what else is there to do but work? Everett has no hobbies. He has no interests outside of going to work and putting food on the table every night. It's no one else's problem if he works and works and works. If he wants to work that much, let him.

So what if Everett is set on the path to self-destruction? He doesn't sleep, he doesn't eat if it means his father and the twins can have more food. He lives a life most people would never be content living. So what if he's riding a train full speed off a cliff? No one else is on the train. If he implodes, then he implodes. Everyone else will just have to deal with the fallout.

_Ashe Illyrian, 14_

"_You're too smart for your own good, has anyone ever told you?"_

_(Three Weeks before the Reapings)_

Ashe is a wanderer.

Sometimes, a nice, long stroll by the creek is just what she needs. She just needs some time to think, to be alone with her thoughts and her knowledge. She just needs time to process all of the information she absorbs.

It often feels as if her mind thinks too fast for the rest of her to comprehend. Her siblings like to joke that she was born in the wrong district. But if Ashe came from 5 or 3, where would she wander? There would be no creek, no forests and endless fields of crops to amble through.

Her mind just never stops. She thinks and she thinks and thinks, and it never stops. While she's working in the fields? Thinking. While she's eating meals? Thinking. While she's sleeping? Thinking. There are so many ideas and thoughts and ambitions in Ashe's mind that it just never stops. It's a swirling hurricane of thought, and Ashe stands in the eye of it. She picks out the pieces she wants to see, the little bits of information she has gathered during the day, and works to process them when she wanders.

And so as Ashe ambles along beside the creek, she sighs in contentment. The sun is setting on the horizon. It bathes the valley in golden light, reflecting off the water beside her.

Eventually, Ashe comes upon her favorite spot on the creekside. She settles down and takes off her backpack. She quickly unzips the bag and pulls out her notebook.

After flipping to the page she left off on, Ashe reaches for the pencil she keeps tucked behind her ear. She puts the lead to the page and starts writing.

It's another thing she has come upon to help her process her overworking brain. She has seven notebooks back home with every page full of words. She just writes whatever comes to mind. Sometimes it's just random little notes. Sometimes it's names she has heard through the day, or little snippets of conversations she caught in passing.

_Today, I met a girl named Kitty. It made me think of those cats that live near my house. _

_I heard a girl get proposed to around lunch time. I believe her name was Celiana? And if I'm not mistaken, her now-fiancé is named Alderson. What he said to her was really sweet. If I had been able to hear him more clearly, I would probably be writing it here, but I know he told her that she was the reason he got out of bed in the morning. _

She taps her chin with her pencil, waiting for another thought from the day to come to mind. After a moment, inspiration strikes and she continues to scribble away.

_I'm starting to wonder if Lucas might have a crush on me? I would hope he doesn't. I don't think that would work out very well. I just don't see him as anything but a friend. Maybe a brother? Definitely _not_ a boyfriend. _

Satisfied, Ashe tucks her pencil back behind her ear and puts her notebook away. The sun has nearly set by now. She can just barely see the top of it peeking over the horizon in the distance, its light nearly gone for the evening.

With a small sigh, Ashe gets to her feet and starts back down the path. Her parents have one rule about going out alone; you just have to be back before dark. It makes wandering in the winter rather difficult, but it means Ashe can be out for hours during the summer.

As she makes her way back home, Ashe makes a list of everything she has to get done tomorrow.

_First of all: help Stevie with his school project. _

_Second: head to work, start planting the sunflowers._

_Third: visit Lucas. _

_Fourth: take a nice, long walk by the creek. _

It's another thing that helps Ashe keep everything in order. She just has to know what she needs to get done in the morning. Even a short list gives her preparation for a long day ahead of her.

As she walks back through town, she glances toward the Mayor's Mansion, thinking of her sister, Julia. Two years ago, she married the mayor's son, and neither of them have spoken to each other since. Ashe doesn't mind not speaking to Julia; she was never her favorite sibling, anyway.

Ashe pulls out her housekey and turns the lock. As soon as she opens the door, her little brother, Stevie, bowls her over, laughing and talking a mile a minute. Even Ashe has difficulty following what he's saying.

"Hi, Ashe! How was your day? Did you see Lucas? Did you see Julia? Did you plant any pretty flowers? Do you harvest any pretty flowers? Did you meet anyone new? Did you buy anything? Did you get paid yet? Will you help me with my homework? Can we play a game later? Ashe? Ashe, are you even listening to me?" Stevie starts laughing mid-sentence as he grabs Ashe's hands and pulls her into the house. Their older sister, Melody, chuckles and shuts the door.

"Hello, Ashe," Melody greets. "How was your walk?"

"As soothing as always," Ashe answers, sliding her backpack off her shoulders and setting it down beside the door. "How were the Harringtons?"

"Emmaline and Neo nearly electrocuted themselves, but they're just fine," Melody answers.

Ashe raises her eyebrows, thinking of the two little kids that Melody babysits most afternoons. It certainly would be an issue if they had managed to shove a fork into a power socket. At least, that's the easiest way Ashe can think of to electrocute yourself. Well, you could drop a plugged-in toaster into a bathtub, or maybe stick a fork into said toaster. But she can't imagine two little kids plugging in a toaster, dropping it into a filled bathtub and _not_ managing to die. Although she could see Emmaline and Neo deciding to stick forks into places they don't believe.

Ashe decides she needs to write a note about Neo and Emmaline in her notebook after dinner.

Davis, Ashe's final sibling, is nowhere to be found. It's not that Ashe is complaining. Out of all of her siblings, Davis the one Ashe likes the least, even compared to Julia. Julia got married. Davis still lives in their house, yet is a jerk to anyone who dares to speak to him.

"Ashe! You're just in time for dinner," Ashe's mother says from the doorway to the kitchen. "Tonight, we're having a rare delicacy—chicken!"

"Ooh!" Stevie exclaims, hopping to his feet and running into the kitchen, nearly knocking both Melody and Ashe over in the process.

The Illyrian family has a little tradition that has gone on for as long as Ashe can remember. Every night when they sit down to eat, her father goes around the table and asks each of his children how their day was.

"How was your day, Davis?"

Davis, as per usual, shrugs and says nothing. When he catches Ashe staring at him from across the table, he scowls at him before looking down at his plate like it's suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world.

"And how was your day, Melody?"

"Well, it was good up until Emmaline and Neo tried to stick a fork into an outlet," Melody says, her smile small and polite.

_Called it,_ Ashe thinks.

"But, they're okay, and I've made sure they won't do it ever again," Melody continues. "I can't really fault them, since they're only two and four. Kids that age aren't really going to understand the danger, you know?"

"And your day, Stevie?"

"My day was great! My friends at school and I played soccer at recess and we learned about the seasons in which certain crops are planted! I also saw a stray cat on the way home and she let me pet her on the head! I really like that kitty and I wish I could have kept her because she was just so sweet! She had pretty fur and a green eye and a blue eye! Oh, I also learned about the colors of tulips that sell the best!"

"And you, Ashe?"

Ashe swallows before she answers. "My day was fine. It was a nice, average day. I did meet a new girl named Kitty though."

From beside her, Stevie gasps. "Like the cat I met?"

"No, this one is a human," laughs Ashe.

The Illyrians (minus Davis) continue on with their conversation over their meal, moving onto talk of the Reapings in a few weeks. The Reapings really don't worry Ashe; everyone always says there's only going to be one person you'll ever know who is Reaped. A few years ago, one of Melody's friends was Reaped. Although, Ashe is smart enough to know the possibility is not completely destroyed; she's a rational girl, despite being slightly idealistic at the same time.

But still, the Games don't worry Ashe. They don't really worry most people her age. And besides, she's only got a few more years to get through anyway. After that? After she survives all the Reapings, she'll have her whole life ahead of her.

**A/N: First of all: most of the religious stuff in Lyndie's POV is probably, like, extremely incorrect. I'm not religious, so I don't know a lot about that kind of stuff, but I felt like I should include it anyway. **

**Second of all: I'm not happy with Everett's POV or Ashe's. I feel like they're really bad introductions to the characters, but I suppose I'm far too lazy to rewrite them. **

**Third of all: man, it has been a **_**hot**_** second since I last updated! It's a long story; basically, my nearly finished original version of this got deleted, so I had to rewrite it all. **

**1\. Thoughts on Lyndie?**

**2\. Thoughts on Everett?**

**3\. Thoughts on Ashe?**

**4\. Which of these three is your favorite?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: do any of these three seem like Victors to you?**

**So, next up is Liesel, Bayou and Sterne. Don't ask me when it will be out, because I have no answer.**

**-Amanda**


	8. Watching You Burn

_Liesel Leenheer, 17_

"_Fuck you. Fuck you very, very much."_

_(Eleven Months Before the Reapings)_

"Liesel! We can't be up here! We'll get caught and we could get arrested—"

"Aw, come on, Noor! Have a little fun in your life," laughs Liesel, pulling her girlfriend along by the hand. "No one is going to see us. It's late at night, and this tower is taller than just about any other building in 5!"

She's not wrong. This building, which Liesel's family just happens to own, is one of the tallest in all of District 5. It's so high up, and so far away from the power plants, that you can see the stars if you squint. People aren't exactly allowed up here, ever since one of the Leenheers' workers pitched themselves off of the roof a few years back, but that's never stopped Liesel before. It's certainly not difficult to steal the keys to the roof and come out here late at night.

Still laughing, Liesel pulls Noor closer to the edge of the roof. The stars twinkle dimly overhead, some constellations vaguely visible through the clouds of pollution. 5 is not as bad as 6 or 8, or even the Capitol, but the sky is still dimmed by the smog.

"Seriously, Lise—we shouldn't be up here," Noor says, adamant.

"You're no fun," Liesel chirps, sitting down with her legs hanging over the edge.

"Liesel! You might fall," Noor says, grabbing on of Liesel's hands in an attempt to pull her back.

"I've done this before, Noor," Liesel answers, leaning forward and looking down toward the streets below. From up here, all of the people and lights appear to be little ants, scurrying around with little purpose aside from hunting for money. "And I'm still alive, right?" She grins and pulls those puppy-dog eyes she knows Noor will just melt for and reaches up for Noor's hand. "Come on, sit with me."

"I…I don't like heights very much, Lise," Noor says, rubbing her arm nervously.

"Oh," Liesel says, immediately springing to her feet. "I—I didn't know. I'm sorry, Noor."

Noor takes a step closer to Liesel. "It's…fine. I'm…fine."

"We can go back inside if you'd feel better," Liesel amends, taking both of Noor's hands in hers.

"No—no, it's fine. If I just look up…it's really pretty," Noor smiles up at the sky and the distant stars, her eyes shining.

"…if you're sure," Liesel says after a moment, staring up at the sky as well. "I wish we could see the stars better."

Noor looks back to Liesel. "You know, we _could_ get caught up here."

"Well, I'll get off easy," Liesel says casually, shrugging. "I'll just give the keys back to my parents, and we'll never speak of the incident again. That's kind of how it works around here. I mean, last week, Tena came home with a boy on her arm at three a.m. and all she got was a lecture."

"Yeah, okay." Noor throws back her head and laughs. It's a beautiful, singsong sound that makes Liesel's heart explode. God, does she love her girlfriend. Everyone says it's a relationship that will never last. They're not even adults yet. They'll obviously break up eventually, right? Liesel says they're all wrong. She and Noor will, with any luck, get married one day.

Liesel grins and closes the space between her and Noor. She leans in and kisses her girlfriend on the lips, a kiss which Noor immediately returns. Liesel sort of loses track of time—that tends to happen when she kisses Noor—and when they pull apart, Liesel's cheeks are flushed. "Gosh, I love you," she says quietly.

"I love you too," Noor answers, resting her forehead against Liesel's.

_Nothing could break this up, _Liesel thinks. _There's nothing that can come between us._

…

_(Nine Months before the Reapings)_

Ohoho, is she wrong.

Liesel knows that Noor was out at a party last night. She knows Noor probably got drunk. But she _never_ expected this.

She told Noor she was going to come by this morning. Which means Noor _knew_ she would come by.

"Liesel…!" Noor exclaims, bolting upright in bed. Liesel takes note of the fact that she's completely naked. "I-I didn't think—I didn't know—what are you doing here?"

Liesel is, for once, too horrified to speak. She stares at Noor with anger and shock evident in her face, her eyes bouncing between Noor and the girl next to her in bed. She recognizes the girl's long mane of red hair. It's one of Noor's co-workers, Iona O'Hare. A girl who has slept with half of the girls in District 5.

Noor jumps to her feet, grabbing a shirt from the floor and rushing closer to Liesel. "Liesel…I-I-I'm sorry! I didn't know you would be here so soon and I…"

"Have you done this before?" Liesel asks quietly, her voice hollow.

"…maybe once or twice," Noor admits, clasping her hands in front of her and staring shamefacedly at the ground. "Different girls, I'm so sorry…"

"I can't believe you!" Liesel shouts. "I thought we fucking HAD SOMETHING! You know what? Everyone else was right! This was a relationship that could never last! So, you know what, Noor? Fuck you. We're done. We're breaking up." With that, Liesel whirls around and storms from the room, her furious footsteps echoing through Noor's house.

"W-wait! Lise! Liesel, please, come back! I'm sorry!" Noor yells, hanging onto the door frame of her room, Iona standing a few feet behind her and casually putting her pants back on. "Liesel!"

But Liesel doesn't come back.

She runs out onto the street, seeing nothing but red. She sprints until she reaches her own home, jamming her key into the lock so hard she misses and stabs it against the door instead. Steam practically pouring from her ears, she yanks open the door and shoves her way into the house.

Ignoring the questions of her family, she stalks past them and up the stairs. She slams the door of her bedroom in Tena's face.

It's odd that Liesel feels no need to cry. There are no tears in her eyes. The only thing that fills her veins is anger. Absolute fury for no one but Noor. Liesel loved Noor. She loved her more than she loves her family. She loved her more than anything else in the world.

And Noor has the audacity to _cheat_.

Who gives a fuck if Noor was drunk? She still made the decision to get into bed with Iona O'Hare. She still made the decision to go out and get drunk in the first place. She still made the decision to take at least two other girls to bed. Liesel finds herself wondering just how long Noor has been cheating on her. Days? Months? Maybe even for the whole two years they've been together? Just how many girls has Noor taken to bed with her? Just Iona? Maybe that one girl, Honora? Or Amberly Cristan? Coraline Folsom? For all Liesel knows, Noor could fucked Tena before.

She clenches her fists as she stands near the shut door of her room, breathing heavily with her eyes screwed shut. "I cannot fucking _believe_ this!" she shouts furiously, whirling around and punching her fist against the wall. Her knuckles scream at her, but she finds the pain feels good. She slams her fist against the wall again and again before she stalks over to her desk. She snatches up a picture of her and Noor together, smiling and laughing. It's a moment that has now been forever lost to the void of time, a moment to never be repeated. Whatever she and Noor had is gone.

Liesel never knew it was so easy to fall out of love.

…

_(Three Months before the Reapings)_

"Liesel! Hi!" Dyna exclaims, waving and grinning excitedly at her girlfriend. "I didn't know you'd be coming by today. How are you?"

Liesel amends a small smile. "Hi, Dyna. I'm pretty good today, actually. How about you?"

"I'm doing great!" Dyna says, her grin only growing. Liesel doesn't quite understand how Dyna can manage to be so peppy all the time, but it's not like she and Dyna will be together for the rest of their lives. Eventually, they'll break up. They just don't click in the same way that Liesel and Noor did. But Liesel needs some way to make Noor jealous, and Dyna Halsey is the best option. After all, Noor had a crush on her for years, and Liesel has to wonder if she ever stopped truly pining after her. "So, I assume you want something?"

"Can we go for a walk?" Liesel asks. "Or are you busy?"

"No, I'm not busy," Dyna replies, reaching for Liesel's hand. "Where do you want to go?"

"Oh, I don't know," Liesel says, although she certainly does know. "How about we head that way?" She points toward the direction of one of District 5's only parks, a place she knows Noor goes to study every day at around this time. Besides, Dyna isn't all that smart. It's not like she'll ever figure out what Liesel is actually going for.

"Sounds good to me!" Dyna says, powering forward.

As they approach the park, Liesel peers through the fence and spots Noor laid out in the grass. Satisfied, she leads Dyna through the gates.

"I'm going to dash off to the bathroom, okay?" Dyna says, letting go of Liesel's hand.

"Okay," Liesel says. "I'll be over on that bench." She points to a bench placed a few feet away from where Noor lays, engrossed in her books.

Dyna nods and hops off to the bathroom as Liesel walks over to the aforementioned bench. She flops down and leans back, stretching and looking up to the sun.

"…Liesel."

She looks up at the sound of Noor's voice. "Oh, Noor," she says flatly. "I didn't see you there."

Noor shuts her book and meets Liesel's eyes. "Is it pointless to apologize again?"

"Yes," Liesel mutters sharply. She raises her voice. "It's not my fault you cheated on me."

"I'm still sorry," Noor says, her voice sincere.

"You're just sorry you got caught," Liesel growls. "We had something, Noor. I thought I could spend the rest of my life with you. I suppose I was wrong."

Noor grimaces and reopens her book. "I never meant to destroy our relationship, Lise."

"Yet you did," Liesel says curtly. "And besides. If you didn't want to ruin our relationship, then you shouldn't have cheated in the first place."

"I'm still sorry," Noor repeats.

Liesel spots Dyna returning from the bathroom, and presses on. "So, how's school going? Having difficulty paying the bills? I bet it's pretty hard to get through college without my family's funds."

Liesel knows she's hit a sore spot with that remark.

"I'm doing my best," Noor says in a low, venomous voice. "I'm still going to get through college, with or without you."

"Oh, look. Here comes Dyna," Liesel says, getting to her feet. She starts to walk away when Noor calls out to her.

"You need to grow up, Liesel."

"And you need to fuck off," Liesel says without turning around. "You ruined our relationship, so now you should pay for your mistakes. So, yeah. Fuck you."

With that, she quickens her pace and heads off to meet Dyna.

_Bayou Hacksom, 18_

"_You gotta be careful. Sometimes there'll be a snake in the water, ya know?"_

_(Six Years before the Reapings)_

Bayou knows he's in for it when he realizes he is walking alone, after dark, behind Faustus with a gang of tidewater trainees following him.

Backwater trainees aren't exactly _popular_ around Faustus. Or anywhere in 4. Nobody really likes backwater citizens except for their fellow throwaways. After all, they're the scum that they don't really show on T.V. Bayou can't remember the last time a backwater trainee managed to make it into the Games. He plans the change that, but he has his doubts. He's been training since he was eight, and even with six more years ahead of him, it seems doubtful that they won't find some bullshit reason to kick him out. That's what happens to most backwater trainees, anyways.

He can hear the voices of the tidewater trainees, laughing and joking together as they wander, on the prowl. He knows their names well; they're considered the best trainees in his year, the ones who will undoubtedly volunteer one day. Their leaders are the shoe-in boy and girl in their year: Matira Kendari and Lir Solomon. Both of them are plenty bloodthirsty, seeming more like they should hail from 2 instead of 4. They, assumedly gaining the feelings from their parents, hate the few backwater trainees of Faustus as much as anyone.

Bayou takes a deep breath, stopping under the street light with his eyes shut.

"Well, if isn't Backwater Bayou," Matira says in a low voice.

Bayou glances down at his shoes. "Hey there, Matira."

Lir gives him a hard shove from behind, but Bayou doesn't stumble. He's grown enough muscles in the past few years that he doesn't fall over himself when someone dares to touch his shoulders. Bayou turns around to face them, looking apathetic at best.

"What?" Lir says mockingly. "You gunna fight back this time, huh?" He's clearly trying to (rather poorly) imitate Bayou's drawl.

Bayou doesn't really remember who throws the first punch. All he knows is that it wasn't him.

Because the next thing he knows, he's laying in the gutter, covered in bruises and drying blood, his feet sticking into the streetlight at an odd angle. He rakes through his memory for what exactly just happened, and comes up with random snatches of a fight. A punch thrown at his eye. His fist slamming into Lir's nose. Somebody kicking his stomach, forcing him to the ground. His head hitting the hard blacktop on the street. Him elbowing Matira in the stomach. His teeth sinking into one of Lir's goon's arm.

His head pounds and the stars above are slightly blurry. He squints and shuts his eyes again, drifting off for a moment before a voice brings him back to the present.

"…Hack?"

He carefully turns his head to the side, wincing in pain as he squints at the figure in the shadows. "Mm," he ventures as he lets his eyes slide closed again. He's pretty sure he recognizes that nickname, but he's kind of tired and his eyelids are heavy and, well…sleep sounds pretty good to him right about now.

"Bayou." He hears them again, and suddenly someone is shaking his shoulder.

"Mm…" he hums, weakly lifting his arms and pushing the stranger away. "Leave m'lone…"

"Bayou, open your eyes," the stranger, their voice feminine enough for Bayou to assume that it's a girl (maybe someone around his age as well) commands, still shaking his shoulder.

Bayou obliges, forcing his eyes open and staring up at the girl's slightly blurry face. After a few moments, he recognizes her as his friend Marjorie. "…hi."

"Hack," she says, her eyes shut and sounding slightly disappointed. "what in the hell happened to you?"

It takes Bayou a moment to process what she just said. "…Lir and Matira?"

"Ah," Marjorie says. "Alright, come on."

"…wha?" Bayou mumbles, wincing again as Marjorie grabs his arm and slings it over her shoulder. "What're you doin'?"

"I'm takin' you home," Marjorie says firmly, dragging Bayou to his feet. "Come on. I'm not just goin' to leave you here, now am I?"

Bayou doesn't answer. He's too busy trying to remember how walk. His feet just don't seem to be cooperating. Occasionally black spots start dancing in his vision, but he continuously manages to fight them off and stay awake. He would really rather not pass out right here with Marjorie. For all he knows, she could just leave him on the side of the road. Honestly? It wouldn't surprise him if she just dropped him to the ground right now.

They slowly run out of streetlights as they leave the tidewater part of town. The backwater area is more friendly, less snobbish, but generally more trashy. The mayor never bothered to put streetlights into the area, meaning they live mostly in the dark.

Bayou doesn't really pay much attention. After all, his head is pounding in his skull and everything is kind of blurry and he's pretty sure his nose might be broken? And he's definitely going to have a bruise on his jaw tomorrow. One of his ribs might be broken? Or at least bruised? That's what he's guessing, at least.

"You don' happen to have a key on you, do you?" Marjorie asks, bringing Bayou back (slightly) to life. They're now both standing in front of the Hacksoms' dumpy little house. Bayou can see the silhouettes of his family moving around inside, their shadows cast on the brown lawn through the curtains.

"…no," Bayou murmurs, letting his head loll sideways and rest on Marjorie's shoulder.

Marjorie purses her lips and knocks on the door with her free hand. They stand on the doorstep for a few moments with Bayou leaning heavily against Marjorie before the door is pulled open by Bayou's little sister.

"Marjorie? Bay—what happened ta you?" Etienne exclaims. "Ma! Ma!"

"Who's at the door, hun?" Bayou's mother says concernedly, appearing over her daughter's shoulder. "Bayou! Marjorie! Goodness gracious, Bayou!" She reaches for Bayou's free hand and pulls him inside. She helps him over to the couch, where he collapses and promptly passes out.

So maybe he gets in trouble the next day at Faustus. But the satisfaction he feels when he sees Lir's black eye and the bruises on Matira's face makes it all worth it.

…

_(Two Weeks before the Reapings)_

This is the day Bayou has been waiting for for ten years. This is the day he finally, _finally_ gets what he has been waiting for. At last, at long, long last, this year's volunteers will be announced.

Bayou sits in Faustus's auditorium while the trainers and Victors stand on stage, reining in all of the over-excited trainees. Marjorie, being only seventeen and being considered underprepared for the Games, isn't present, which leaves Bayou sitting with the other two backwater trainees who have made it this far.

"Alright, alright!" Aran Delarosa, the head trainer of Faustus Academy, calls from the stage. "I know you're all excited to find out who our volunteers for this year are, but you have to be quiet before we can make our announcements!" He manages to garner a few laughs from the trainees in the audience, but most people are too on edge to smile. After all, this is, for many of them, including Bayou, their last chance to get what they've trained for. If not, that's ten years of their lives they've wasted. "As always, we will start off with our female volunteer. If you are interested in the tier list, please see the bulletin board outside the auditorium. Our female reserve volunteer is…Matira Kendari!"

There's a smattering of applause, but the loudest thing in the room is Matira's shout of "I CANNOT FUCKING BELIEVE THIS! I SPENT TEN YEARS OF MY LIFE FIGHTING FOR THIS SPOT! AND WHO IN PANEM COULD BE BETTER THAN ME FOR THE SPOT?"

Aran powers on, curtly asking Matira to come to the stage. "Thank you for that lovely speech, Miss Kendari," he says tersely. "And now, our female volunteer is…Ottilie Blackwell!"

Bayou looks around. He recognizes that name, but he's pretty sure she's not eighteen. Or even seventeen. He watches the girl head to the stage, walking with pride in her step and realizes she can't be more than fifteen. _That's new_, he thinks, biting his lip. They said Marjorie couldn't compete for the spot because she was too young but let a fifteen-year-old take the spot?

"And now, onto the male," Aran continues. "Our male reserve volunteer is…Crockett Montgomery!"

That one is no surprise to Bayou. He practically knows the spots already; the reserve is Crockett, and the volunteer is Lir. He knows he should allow himself at least a little bit of hope for himself to be chosen, but what's the likelihood when there are people like Crockett and Lir running around?

Once Crockett steps up to the stage, Aran smiles at him and continues on. "And finally, our male volunteer is…" The pause feels like it lasts for hours, despite being no longer than any of the others. It's a stretch of time that will change the course of Bayou's life. Either he goes into the Games, or he doesn't. One way or another, his life will change with this announcement. "Bayou Hacksom!"

For a moment, the world stops spinning. And then Bayou shoots to his feet and makes for the stage, a grin splitting across his face. He shakes Aran's hand as he stands on the stage, looking triumphantly out across the audience of trainees.

He'll prove everyone wrong. Everyone who says no backwater trainee can win the Hunger Games will be sorry they ever said he can't make it out. He'll make his family proud, come home, maybe finally get with Marjorie, and spit in the face of every person who ever said he can't do it.

So, yeah, fuck the tidewater trainees. Fuck Lir. Fuck Matira. Hell, fuck Ottilie Blackwell.

Either Bayou wins, or he doesn't. And it's certainly going to be the former.

_Sterne Colvin, 14_

"_I'm not sure if I'll make it back home, but if I die, somebody's coming with me."_

_(Three Months before the Reapings)_

Sterne is no stranger to being asked if he's doing okay. And unlike many people he's come across in his fourteen years of traversing the streets of District 5, he is, in fact, just fine. So maybe he makes some jokes about death. So many he makes jokes about his little amount of will to live. But it's not like he's ever going to make good on that. It's not like he's ever going to go suicide. No, Sterne Colvin finds life far too entertaining to just end it of his own accord.

So, Sterne is just fine. Honestly, it's begun to get rather annoying. Like, he's just trying to hop a fence into one of the rich-people parks. Just leave him be when he hops a fence. That's a seriously bad time to start asking somebody about their wellbeing.

"If I were to climb this fence and get spotted by a Peacekeeper, d'you think I would shot on sight or arrested and executed?" Sterne asks Ty and Ricky as he tests the strength of the fence. It will definitely hold his weight.

"I'd say you'd be arrested, but I don't think you'd be executed. Probably just given a few dozen lashes," Ty answers nonchalantly, his hands in his pockets.

"Hm," Sterne says. "Seems worth it to me." With that, he places his foot in one of the holes of the fence and pulls himself up. There's enough trees on the other side of the fence to shroud him in shadows. It would take someone expressly looking for him to spot him. "But…do you think, if I were to jump off the top, would I crack my neck?"

"That's an awful thing to say!"

Sterne turns his head at the sound of a girl's voice instead of Ty's or Ricky's. "Uh, what?"

"Are you okay? Like, how can you just _talk_ about that kind of thing?" the girl continues, seeming completely affronted.

"It's not like I'm actually going to do it," Sterne mutters, shrugging. "It's just a joke."

"I'm sure it's not very funny to someone who has been in the Hunger Games!" the girl exclaims.

It's a comical statement, and although Sterne knows it's not supposed to be funny, he still laughs. "Well, when that happens, maybe I'll stop joking about cracking my neck. Until then, I'm gonna continue laughing at things I find funny, thanks."

"My sister happened to die in the Hunger Games last year!" the girl cries. "She fell and cracked her neck, you—you—you heartless jerk!" The girl storms away, sounding like she's about to start crying.

For a moment, Sterne is quiet. He grimaces and says, "Didn't realize that."

"Yeah…" Ty says. "Oh well. Are you gonna climb the fence or not?"

Sterne laughs, shelving the incident for later as he starts to pull himself further up the fence. As he climbs higher, the branches from the trees inside the park start to get caught in his hair as they hang over his head. After a few minutes, he reaches the top and swings his left leg over the edge of the fence.

As he straddles the fence, trying to figure out exactly how he should climb down, a new voice interrupts him. "Stop, boy!"

_Uh-oh_, Sterne thinks, looking up to see two Peacekeepers charging across the park toward him. _Gotta get out of dodge. Quick. _

He swings his leg back over to the other side and drops toward the ground. He grabs Ricky and Ty by the wrists and pulls them away from the fence, noting that he didn't break his neck as he runs for an alleyway.

His feet slap hard against the ground as he lets go of his friends' arms, hoping they're keeping up with him. At last he reaches the safety of the alleyway and ducks into the shadows, waiting for Ricky and Ty to catch up.

"Well," he says, putting his hands on his hips. "That certainly didn't go very well. Maybe we should try…not breaking the law next time. Sound good to you guys?"

"Definitely," Ricky says, sliding down the wall. "I'd rather not get arrested. I don't want any scars on my back."

"Same," Ty agrees.

"I don't know. Scars sounds pretty cool to me," Sterne says, shrugging.

"Yeah, but you could die from infection," Ricky mutters, getting to his feet. "Should we head back toward your house, Sterne?"

"Yep," Sterne agrees, following Ricky down the alleyway.

He knows the streets of 5 well. He's been to practically ever corner of the city, investigated every nook and cranny, and met almost every person who will talk to him. It's not everyday he and his friends get into something that could get them arrested, since even Sterne would really rather not die or get whipped. After all, no matter how much Sterne jokes about it, death is not fun. And the longer Sterne can out run it, the better.

They slow their pace as they get closer to Sterne's house. It's where they tend to hang out; he has the nicest house of any of them. The only downside is Sterne's older brother, Burton, who views Sterne as a nuisance and nothing more. By default, that means that Sterne's friends must also suck shit. Or at least, that it what Sterne assumes. Burton doesn't exactly tell him why he hates him so much. Aside from his sense of humor, of course.

But that's not really anything new, is it?

"Hello there, boys," one of Sterne's neighbors, Mrs. Solano, says cheerily. "How are you all doing today?"

"As great as always, Mrs. Solano," Sterne says, grinning. "How about you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she answers. "Just heading out for my shift at the power plant."

"Don't die!" Sterne calls after her. It's one of his favorite ways to say goodbye. And besides, it's pretty good advice, isn't it? It would really suck to hear that Mrs. Solano got caught in the machinery and died. Mrs. Solano is a great neighbor, after all. She makes good cookies, and used to babysit Sterne and Burton when they were really little.

He, Ty and Ricky make their way past Mrs. Solano's house and into the Colvin home. It's comfortable, a cozy place, and Sterne is always happy to return to it. Even if it means having to deal with Burton again.

Ty flops down on the couch, Ricky taking the floor and Sterne sitting on the coffee table. "So, that was a close one today, wasn't it?" Sterne asks, fiddling with one of the coasters sitting on the table.

"Yeah," Ricky says. "Let's not do anything illegal for a while, sound good? I'd hate to see you get hurt, Sterne."

"Ah, come on, guys. I'm strong. I could survive a few dozen lashes," says Sterne.

"Could you survive the Hunger Games, though?" Ty asks, his voice soft. "I mean, you could crack your neck like that girl from last year's Games and—"

"I can dance with lady death any day of the week," Sterne says confidently. And sure, he probably _could_, but he'd really rather not. He can joke about death all the live long day, but the moment he's really faced with the prospect…he doesn't really know what he'd do. Maybe he'd run? Yeah, he'd probably run. If he runs, it's less likely he'd get killed or seriously injured.

Sterne lays back against the coffee table, staring at the light hanging above his head. He's strong. Surely he could survive the Hunger Games, even if all he did was run and hide. Who knows? Maybe Sterne Colvin would be the first Victor to ever make it out without taking a single life. It would certainly be one way to make his mark on Panem.

**A/N: Sterne's intro is very short. That's because I'm finishing this when I'm supposed to be asleep, and I'm afraid my parents are going to hear me typing. **

**1\. Thoughts on Liesel?**

**2\. Thoughts on Bayou?**

**3\. Thoughts on Sterne?**

**4\. Favorite of the three?**

**Next: Eris, Calista and Quinn.**

**-Amanda**


	9. Everything I've Worked For

_Quinn Bayers, 17_

"_Family comes first."_

_(Fourteen Months Before the Reapings)_

"Tragedy" is not common in the Bayers household. The saddest thing to ever befall them was the death of an alley cat around a decade ago.

But the death of Quinn's father certainly counts as "tragedy".

However, Quinn expected it. And everything his father has done to his family, he doesn't file this away in the "tragedy" section of his memory. No, it more of lands in the "mild inconvenience" category. Because, yes, Quinn loved his father. But after your father kind of damns you for life, that feeling…dulled, a little bit? Quinn does miss his father sometimes, though…

The thing about his father's death that is _not_ a mild inconvenience is the enormous pile of debt the remaining Bayers are now saddled with. The debt was paid. What the gang demanded of them before was no longer an issue—Quinn's mother had thrown their father out of the house, and he found a way to start making money.

Yet, here they are. The leader of their father's old gang called a meeting with them, so here they sit. Quinn's mother is on one side of him, his younger brother, Bara, on the other. Across the solid wooden desk sits Roy Sader, the current root of their problems. Of course, the real root is all the debt that they're ruminating on, but Roy probably takes second or third place on Quinn's list of issues.

"So, as I'm sure you all know, there is a very large pile of debt sitting on Bayers family," Roy says, his hands folded in front of him as if this is a diplomatic meeting and not a conversation between three average people and a lunatic gang leader. "Krias Bayers owed us quite a large sum of money. A seeing as he is now…indisposed—"

"You mean you killed him," Quinn says curtly. The signs pointing to it are overwhelming. His body was found near the gang's headquarters. He was beaten to death. This gang had a personal vendetta out against him. It's simple to see that it was Roy and his goons who ended his father's life.

Roy turns up his nose at Quinn, his eyes cold as he stares down at them from his high, proud horse. "I would recommend you watch your tone, son."

Quinn glares daggers at him, his nostrils flaring angrily. "I'm not your son."

"Honey…" his mother says, her voice quiet and warning as she puts a hand on Quinn's forearm.

Quinn slumps back in his chair, scowling at the floor instead of Roy's face.

"As I was saying before I was so _rudely_ interrupted," Roy says, eyeing Quinn with disgust. "you are stuck with a rather extensive amount of debt to pay. It is now up to you, remaining Bayers, to pay us back."

Quinn swallows thickly, still staring at the ground. The debt was his father's problem, not theirs. This should not be a problem.

"What more is there that we can do?" his mother asks, her hand still resting on Quinn's forearm.

"You can pay us the remaining money," Roy says, smiling as if that's a nice, easy solution to the problem. And maybe it is to him. But it's obviously not even possible! They don't have enough money to just hand it to Roy and be on their way!

"We owe you nothing," Quinn growls. "Whatever my father owed you doesn't matter. Need I remind you that you killed him? You could have just left him alone, and you would have gotten your money. We have nothing to give you."

"Yes, well…there's plenty of unpaid debt left," Roy amends, his eyebrows raised congenially. "There's more that you have to pay, see. Your father…well, your father really was quite the gambling addict, and there's still quite the large pile of debt that has yet to be paid back."

"That's bullshit!" Quinn says angrily, jumping to his feet and throwing his mother's hand off of his arm. "The debt was Father's problem, not ours! We owe you _nothing_." He has half the mind to spit on Roy's desk, but decides that that would probably be taking it too far. After all, he would really, really prefer that his family not get killed today.

"That is incorrect, son," Roy says, shrugging nonchalantly.

"I'm not your son."

"We don't care how we get the money. We just need it paid," Roy continues as if Quinn never spoke in the first place. "So, you are, of course, required to pay the remaining money off."

"And if we don't pay you?" Quinn asks, his anger still fighting its way into his voice. It is, indeed, absolute bullshit.

The next thing Quinn knows, Roy is standing beside them and holding a gun to Bara's head. Bara stares at Quinn with terrified, wide eyes. Their mother cries out in horror as she too jumps to her feet. Roy just smiles at them maliciously. "Here are your options, remaining Bayers: either you pay us what we demand from you, or we kill all of you. One. By. One. First, this one—" he indicates Bara with his gun. "—then, your mother. Lastly, we beat you to death." He stares down Quinn as if daring him to look away first. Quinn resolutely stares back, refusing to let Roy win.

_That is not part of the plan. _"We don't have the money to pay you, even for bullshit reasons," Quinn says. "We barely have enough money to feed ourselves. We cannot pay you back for our father's misguided decisions."

"So, you want to negotiate, do you?" Roy asks, idly messing with one of his pens, meticulously laid out on the desk.

"Yes!" Quinn's mother exclaims, relief flooding her face. "We can negotiate some sort of deal—"

"Here's your deal," Roy interrupts, setting down the pen with a quiet _thunk_. "You pay us, or we kill you. Simple."

…

_(Three Weeks Before the Reapings)_

Rain pours heavy down on Quinn's shoulders as he trudges his way through the muddy District 11 streets. He has his hood pulled up over his head and his hands jammed into his pockets, but he's still getting soaked. Maybe there's a reason no one goes out in this sort of weather.

But, Quinn likes the rain. It's not his favorite sort of weather, but it's more enjoyable to go for a walk in than a warm, sunny afternoon. Besides, Roy's goons don't prowl when the weather is bad. For all they say about being brave, they won't even go outside in the rain. They're like feral cats. They can talk the talk and walk the walk, but when push comes to shove, they really aren't all that scary.

What's really scary is the debt that lays heavy upon Quinn's shoulders. He and Bara dropped out of school so they could go to work in the fields, just to scrounge up a few more caps to hand over to the gang.

Still, Quinn doesn't have it in him to hate his father. Sure, it's his father's fault for gambling away so much money, but it's not his fault that the gang killed him. And besides, when Quinn thinks of his father, he thinks of a man who could make people laugh despite being a little lazy and little rude. He doesn't think of a man who ruined his life. He thinks of his father, not some stranger who threw heaps of debt upon his family.

Quinn has a plan, however.

As he walks through the rain, his worn boots sinking into the mud with each step, he runs the plan over in his head for the seven-hundredth, ninety-third time. No, he has not been counting. Yes, he really has reconsidered the idea that many times, ironing out each little detail to make sure it goes well. If there's one thing that Quinn hates, it's a plan falling apart.

In three weeks, the Reapings for the One-Hundredth, Fifty-Third Annual Hunger Games will take place, right in the very square that Quinn is currently trudging through. Some little kid will probably be Reaped, because that's what usually happens when there's going to be a volunteer, for whatever reason.

The aforementioned volunteer will, obviously, be Quinn Bayers.

It makes so much sense. Not only will there be more money than he knows how to count if he wins, but there will be security for his family. His father's gang can never touch them again. They will be sitting high and dry with enough Caps to pay them off and then some.

…and, obviously, he could die as well. But it doesn't really matter. His family is fucked if something doesn't give.

Besides, the good outweighs the bad. Quinn has never put much stock into his own life; sacrificing himself for the greater good of his family is an honorable way to go out, in his opinion. But, if all goes well…that won't be an issue. He'll be back home in a few weeks, and his family will be safe and sound at last.

Everything will turn out okay. Quinn doesn't really know how, but he knows things will work out.

…maybe.

_Eris Rowan, 13_

"_You absolute tree trunk!"_

_(Six Years before the Reapings)_

Eris has never climbed a tree before. It's, admittedly, a little bit sad for a girl from District 7 to make it so many years without ever scaling a tree, but Eris likes to think she was saving the excitement for the right moment. She's always loved trees, but has never really had that much interest in climbing up one. She's content to look at them and admire their beauty from the ground.

That all changes today. Today, Eris's older sister, Erato, is taking her to climb a tree in one of the forests. Or maybe it's all one big forest? There is, after all, forest pretty much everywhere in District 7. It's not called the lumber district for nothing.

"I'm so excited!" Eris proclaims as she follows Erato down the trail and deeper into the forest. "You've climbed trees before, right?"

"Of course I have," Erato answers, smiling down to her sister. "We should pick a sturdy one, obviously. The last thing we need is to fall, right?"

"Right!" Eris chirps dutifully, bounding ahead of Erato. The sun peeks through the canopy of trees above, making the light into the forest rather odd. Some places are dark, shrouded in shadows, and others are bright and cheery. Eris gravitates toward the bright and cheery parts much more than the shadows. "I'm so excited."

"You said that already," Erato says, laughing and shaking her head. She approaches a tree and presses one of her feet against it. "This one seems good. What do you think, Eris?"

"Yep," Eris agrees without giving it second thought. All of these trees are probably good to climb, right? It doesn't really matter which they choose, surely. "Let's get climbing!"

She grabs ahold of one of the branches and starts to pull herself higher. After around two minutes, she has gained a distance taller than she is. She peers over her shoulder at the ground and spots Erato around a foot below her. "This is so exciting!"

"Just be careful, Eris," Erato says.

"I _am_ being careful," Eris says, rolling her eyes as she pulls herself higher. She keeps staring upward as she climbs, higher and higher, falling into a confident grove. She's going to be doing this all of the time now! How has she not been tree climbing before? This is so much fun!

She pauses and decides to look down to see how much distance she has covered. When she peers over her shoulder, she sees Erato climbing a few feet below her. "Hi!" she calls down to her sister, for a moment relaxing her grip on the trunk of the tree.

"Hey," Erato answers, sounding slightly winded.

Eris grins wider and starts climbing again. Her hand closes around a thin branch above her and she pulls herself up and—

_SNAP!_

The branch she holds onto snaps in half, sending Eris plummeting some thirty feet toward the ground. She screams as she crashes, back first, into Erato and drags her down with her.

For a long, awful moment, they're both screaming and falling and _screaming and falling and oh my god they're going to die and Eris is too young to die she's only seven she can't die yet and she'll be responsible for Erato's death too and oh god oh god oh god—_

They slam into the ground all at once, Eris landing on top of Erato's legs and slamming her head backwards against her sister's stomach.

Eris rolls sideways off of her moaning older sister, where she lays on the grass for a few long moments. Her left arm throbs angrily and her head pounds. She probably could have broken her neck from that fall…

For a few moments, Eris's eyelids drift close before she slowly opens them again. She listens to her sister's likely unconscious groans of pain and forces herself into a sitting position. She leans against a tree trunk behind her, noticing that her vision is slightly blurry. Maybe she has a concussion? Is this what concussions feel like? Maybe that's the reason her ears are ringing so much.

Eris sluggishly turns her head to look at Erato's unconscious form. Her legs are bent at odd angles, and she's pretty sure there's some blood dribbling onto the grass…

Her head rests against the tree trunk as she drifts off for another few moments before her eyelids suddenly snap open. She stares at her sister for a good thirty second before she stumbles to her feet, pushing off of the arm that doesn't hurt like hell.

The moment she makes it to her feet, she collapses sideways. Undeterred, Eris tries again and manages to stay standing this time. Immediately, she starts stumbling back down the path, knowing that if she doesn't get help for Erato, it's unlikely that anyone will. And if she left Erato to die out here, well…Eris doesn't quite know how she'd live with the guilt.

…

_(Four Months before the Reapings)_

"Hey, Eris, Erebus! How was school?" Erato's optimistic voice greets Eris at the door as she and Erebus stand on the threshold.

"It was okay," Eris responds with a shrug. She walks deeper into the house, leaving Erebus standing in the doorway. As she approaches the table, Erato wheels her chair toward the living room. "We had a test on the sturdiest kinds of wood." She has the oddest urge to spit on the ground at the word "wood".

Eris and trees no longer really…get along. After all, a tree is the reason that Erato is paralyzed from the waist down and that Eris has a nice long scar on her left forearm. Eris remembers the days when she loved to take walks through the woods, just to see all of the trees, but now, the forest just makes her think of falling from trees. Maybe this time, she'd actually snap her neck on impact. Maybe this time, she'd be the one to really take the fallout of it. Maybe this time, she'd be the one in the wheelchair, not Erato.

"How'd that go?" Erato asks, wheeling toward the couch as Erebus flops down in front of the T.V.

"I don't know," Eris says. "It's not been graded yet."

"Well, how do you think it went?"

"I don't know!" Eris repeats, slightly frustrated. "What does it matter to you how the test went? When I'm a lumberjack one day, it's not going to matter what kind of wood is the sturdiest!"

"True," Erato amends, nodding. "You seem kind of frustrated. Is everything okay?"

"Yes, everything's _fine_," Eris spits out, sitting down on the couch heavily. "I'm just tired."

"Mm," Erato hums, clearly not wanting to take that for an answer.

"When will Daddy be home?" Erebus asks without looking away from the T.V.

"I'm not sure," Erato replies. "You know he comes home late on weekdays."

"He comes home late all of the time," Eris corrects. "I know he's making money, I know he's busy, _I know_ he's the only one bringing in any cash, but…" she trails off, shaking her head and heaving a sigh. "It's like he doesn't even live here anymore. He just comes home and goes to bed. I can't even remember the last time I had a really conversation with him."

"I know," Erato says, picking up a book from the coffee table and paging it open. She falls silent, to which Eris assumes means it's the end of the conversation. Shaking her head, she stands up, grabs her bag, and heads into the bedroom that she and Erato share.

She tosses her bag onto the floor before flopping down on the bed. She misses having her dad around, but it's been years since he had any real presence in the house. He had to work two jobs after the tree climbing accident so he could pay off the medical bills.

Eris knows that it's her fault that her father isn't around. If she had been a bit less cocky on the day she had gone tree climbing, Erato wouldn't be wheelchair bound for the rest of her life. Her father wouldn't have stress coming out of his ears. Everything would still be like it had been.

Of course, her mother wouldn't be here. Eris never even knew her mother. She died giving birth to Erebus when Eris was four. She has just a few vague memories a woman with honey blonde hair and a bright smile, who always smelled like pine trees, and would plant flowers in the backyard. It's just pictures that her mind occasionally conjures up as if to say "Hey, remember this lady? Your mother? Well, she's still dead, you still never knew her, but here's a few fuzzy images of her face to make you sad!"

Eris sighs and shuts her eyes, laying back against the pillows. She faces away from the window, since there are trees planted just outside the glass.

The only good thing that will come in Eris's life is the day she finally gets to start cutting down those wretched trees. At least she can make those stupid trees suffer like they make her sister suffer. After all, it is Eris's fault that her sister can't walk. Even if it's a tiny thing, she can at least make it up to her sister by cutting down as many trees as she possibly can.

Not that that will make her sister's legs work again, but damn will it feel good.

_Calista Abbey, 18_

"_After everything I have worked for, it cannot be for nothing."_

_(Four Years before the Reapings)_

_**TW for abuse**_

"You know, Cal, you're so…secretive."

"Don't call me 'Cal'," Calista growls, rolling over and staring at the stark gray walls of her (unfortunately, shared) dormitory. Whoever thought it was a good idea for trainees to have shard dorms was really, really stupid and should probably be thrown through a wood chipper. Although, they're likely long dead so… "And I'm allowed to be as secretive as I want."

"It's just, like, where do you come from?" her roommate, Calista can't quite remember her name…oh, she knows she heard it earlier…it might start with a _g_? Or is it an _h_…? "I've heard your name, but I know you're not, like, the cream of the crop but you're not bad…and I've definitely heard the last name 'Abbey' before. There was this trainee a few decades back with the same name."

"Yeah, I know," Calista says, still resolutely staring at the wall beside her bed. "Jason Abbey, my father." She spits the word 'father' with a certain venom that she knows can't go over her roommate's head…

…yet somehow it does. "Oh, cool. I bet he's pretty proud of you, yeah?"

Calista rolls over and scowls at her roommate. "Oh, yes. We're best friends and live a castle in pretty kitten land with rainbows and unicorns as our neighbors."

"You don't have to be a jerk about it," her roommate mutters.

"I don't have to be a jerk, you're right," Calista says. "And I'm only a jerk about that certain subject."

Her roommate, for once, shuts up. _Thank Panem_, Calista thinks, leaning against the wall beside her bed. She's not usually this impatient. It's just, the frustration of moving dorms and getting a new roommate, having to find her way around a brand new building at Court…well, it's put Calista on a rather short fuse. And her roommate is apparently very good at lighting it.

"So…" her roommate says, laying on her back and messing with a bracelet. "What's your favorite weapon?"

"Sword," Calista answers shortly. "Any kind, really. Although gladiuses are probably the best."

"No way. It's totally a katana that's best."

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say," Calista says, shrugging. There's really no point to arguing about what kind of swords are the best, and she could have avoided the whole issue if she had worded her sentence better. She could have said "Although gladiuses are probably my favorite" instead of what she actually said. But, unfortunately, what's done is done. Calista just prefers to stay out of arguments, that's all. "So…is that what you favor, then? Katanas?"

"Oh, no. I'm a knife-thrower. I just have a friend who uses katanas and damn, is she deadly with them."

"Oh," Calista says, unsure of what else she could say. What else is there to say? All Calista knows is that she's offending her new roommate, probably by simply existing, and there's nothing she can do about it. And she's got to live with this girl for the next year!

Of course, it's better than the alternative. Her only other option is to live from home, and she started training in order to avoid that! After all, home is hell. Home is where arguments transpire. Home is where she gets hit. Home is where her father yells at her for not being better, for not being a boy, for making her mother sick. Calista has seen signs in stores for people to put in their houses that say _home is where the heart is_, usually with pictures of birds or something. But for Calista, home is where her hell is. She would much rather spend the next year sharing a room with a girl who clearly already hates her and talks too much than go home each day just to get screamed at.

_But_, if there is one good thing that comes from her father, it that it encourages her to be better. Her father yells at her for not being good enough with ranged weapons? She'll dedicate the next two weeks to it. Her father yells at her for eating too much? She'll start skipping lunch. Her father yells at her for being too emotional? She shuts herself off. It's the best solution, and Calista gets something out of it as well. She becomes better. She becomes stronger. She becomes the trainee that every person employed at Court is happy to speak to.

She becomes…well, not exactly what she wants to be, but what she _needs_ to be. She's spent her whole life being told she's a girl, so there's no way she can volunteer for the Hunger Games. It's her father's philosophy, the reason he wanted a son so badly. After all, he didn't get chosen as the volunteer, and he is the best fighter under the sun. How in Panem could a _girl_ get chosen when not even he did?

Calista will show him. He says she can't get chosen as the volunteer? Well, she's going to be that fucking volunteer. She'll become the volunteer just to spite him. Oh, Calista Abbey will spite them all.

…

_(Three Months Before the Reapings)_

Today is Calista's day. Oh, this is the day she finally gets exactly what she wants. She'll go home today, for once, and tell her father that she will be the volunteer for the One-Hundredth, Fifty-Third Annual Hunger Games. She can't wait to see the shock, and the pride on his face. Oh, he'll finally, _finally_, be proud of her. It's going to be glorious.

Calista has stayed at Court for the past eight years. She has been home around once a month, to visit her mother. Finally, all of her hard work will have paid off.

Of course, if she lived at home, she would simply receive a letter telling her that she will be volunteering. But for those who stay at Court, there's a list posted outside of the Administrator's office.

As Calista approaches it, she can see a group of kids huddled around it, all reading the rankings. Calista sees her friend, Farah, and her boyfriend, Ryder, both reading the list. She scans their faces for signs of jubilation and kinds nothing. _That doesn't mean anything_, she tells herself. _Maybe they're just looking for their own names._

But she doesn't go in feeling very confident. Just minutes ago as she was walking here, she was certain it was going to be her name at the top of the list but…maybe it won't be. She runs through everything she has done at the training sessions for the past two months, trying to think of something she could have possibly done wrong that would have landed herself lower on the list.

_No, no, I'm just nervous_, she tries to tell herself, but finds herself not even listening. _I'm being irrational. Surely I'm at the top of the list…?_

As she elbows her way to the bulletin list, she decides to start at the bottom of the list and work her way up. Her eyes scan each name as they pass, as she works her way further and further toward the top spot. With each name she reads, a small fraction of the confidence from before creeps back into her heart. _Eleven more to go…ten…nine…eight…se…_

_Seventh Place: Calista Abbey, 18_

She stares at it for a good two minutes. Maybe if she stares at it for long enough, it will hop off the paper, climb to the top spot and kick out whoever is up there in Calista's place.

After another long-suffering moment, Calista looks up to the top spot. _Silvera Prowess, 18_. The sister of Goldie Prowess, who happened to be the chosen volunteer two years ago…

Calista pushes her way through the crowd, hurrying down the hallway and ignoring the sounds of Farah and Ryder trying to follow her. She walks faster, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Goldie Prowess didn't get to volunteer…and neither will Silvera.

Calista will be damned if she doesn't get her change to prove herself. _Seventh place_, she thinks. _Seventh goddamn place! I thought I was better…_

_You will never be better, _the voice of her father croons in her head. _You will never be chosen. You will never be good enough. You're subpar at best! You're a coward, and even if you _were_ chosen as the volunteer—which will never happen, by the way—you could never have the courage to actually volunteer! You are nothing, nothing compared to what I was once. You're just a tiny, weak little girl who will soon have nothing to her name, no claim to fame at all. Face it—there's no point in even trying. You're just going to fail, like always. _

Calista clenches her fists harder, if that's even possible. She stops walking, glaring at the floor in front of her.

_This time, _she thinks. _This time, I will not fail. Go fuck yourself, Silvera Prowess. After everything I've worked for, everything I have sacrificed, I _will_ get what I want. _

She bites her lip angrily and continues walking. Maybe she didn't get the top spot, or even the reserve spot. But she will be volunteering in three months. She will be coming out on top. She will be crowned the Victor of the One-Hundredth, Fifty-Third Annual Hunger Games, and anyone who says otherwise can go fuck themselves. Calista has spent her whole life trying to be better, sacrificing things to be better, and she cannot let all of that go to waste.

_I can be better, _she thinks. _I can be the best._

**A/N: Halfway through, and I am not yet burned out! It's amazing! In all honesty, I'm kind of enjoying the Reapings this time around because each scene is different. I hope I've been writing these characters to satisfaction so far. And speaking of which…**

**1\. Thoughts on Quinn?**

**2\. Thoughts on Eris?**

**3\. Thoughts on Calista?**

**4\. Which of these three is your favorite?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: which of these three seems like the most likely Victor?**

**Also, this will be a double update with an interlude, so make sure to look for that. **

**Has anyone else here watched The Good Place? I've been marathoning it this weekend and I'm almost done with season two at the moment. There are so many Hamilton references in it for some reason, and I am loving it. **

**-Amanda**


	10. Times Are Changing

_Silas Euphemia, 38_

_Head Gamemaker of Panem_

"So, you've done _absolutely_ nothing in the time I've been abroad?"

Silas heaves a long suffering sigh and meets Lanai's eyes. "Lanai, please. I, at the moment, have more pressing matters than your little rebellion—" The face of his three-month-old daughter, Astoria, comes to mind. And these Games fail, the life of his wife and daughter could be at as much risk as Silas's own head.

"Yeah, yeah, so you're a father now, big deal," Lanai says, leaning heavily over Silas's desk.

"It is, in fact, a big deal," Silas says curtly. "And, need I remind you of what is at stake here? If you muck these Games up, then your precious rebellion will fail before anyone even knows it started."

"I'm doing my best here, Silas!" Lanai exclaims. "I've been in Districts 8 and 6 for the past six months, trying to find somebody who will join our cause! There's no one who wants change and is willing to fight for it, Silas. Everyone just wants the Capitol to go away while they sit on their couch and get drunk. And you heard what happened in District 5 after the One-Hundred, Fifty-First Games—we can't have a repeat of that!"

Silas sighs again, holding his head in his hands. "Lanai, you were so certain that getting Divinity Faust out of the arena alive was the way to go. Yet so far, all Vin has does is sit her house and mope around. She's done nothing for the cause. There were other tributes last year that we could have used that would be less of a liability—"

Lanai slams her fist angrily onto Silas's desk, her fury evident in her face. "Divinity Faust was the correct choice, Silas! Besides, she's the only one we could use for our cause that wouldn't want to run and hide!" Some of the anger drains from Lanai's face as she slumps to her knees. "Here's what I'm proposing, Silas. We rig the Victor. We rig whatever Victor we want, without making it obvious, and…" Lanai takes a deep breath. Silas looks at her oddly. "we save as many tributes as we possibly can."

Silas's heart drops to his stomach for a long moment before he says, "Lanai, that's simply not possible. We can't get an entire team on the hovercrafts that won't rat us out to the president—"

"And what's Graciela going to do about it? She's incompetent, a coward, who does nothing but sit in her enormous house and pet her cats!" Lanai exclaims. "Graciela is not an issue. Graciela is so stupid we practically have her on our side already."

For a moment, both of them are silent as Lanai seemingly thinks something through. At last, Silas breaks the thick silence in the room by saying, "The issue may not be Graciela. The issue is Ezra."

"I mean, you're not wrong," Lanai answers. "But Ezra is studying in District 3 right now. He's nowhere near the Capitol—"

"But he can be, if he hears wind of this. All of our heads would on the line if he found out we were trying to rescue tributes from the arena," Silas says. "I'm sorry, Lanai, but it's not a feasible answer. I can rig the Victor as much as I want, but saving tributes simply isn't possible. We're going to have to figure out a different way to incite change."

Silas gets to his feet and starts gathering papers, assuming his meeting with Lanai is over.

But, unfortunately, he is very, very wrong.

"We have a chance to change things, Silas," Lanai says in a low, venomous voice. "We have the ability to make a difference, to save more lives, yet you refuse. What is holding you back? You told me you support this cause. If you support it so much, then help me defend it."

"I have a family," Silas says tersely. "I'm sorry, Lanai, but I have to look out for my own head in this situation. Any wrong move, and not only would my head roll, but Astoria and Rynna's as well. I just can't risk that."

"You care so much for your daughter," Lanai says. "Do you not wish for a better world for her to grow up in?"

"Astoria will grow up in the Capitol, without fear of the Reapings, Lanai," Silas says, his voice firm. "Sometimes things change, Lanai. I still support this cause. But I need to support it from afar. Besides, I still have a job to do. Half of the tributes have been Reaped, Lanai. We've got a Games ahead of us. My final one, I might add."

"Things _are _changing, Silas," says Lanai. "The Districts are getting restless. The people I talked to in 8 and 6…with the right person and the right words, they could be spurred to act. We could fix things, Silas. People are whispering of rebellion, and we have to utilize that while people still care."

"Lanai," Silas says firmly and loudly. "We are but a tiny faction of people who are willing to act. Nayra is dead. Aristotle is untrustworthy. Divinity is crazy. And Arthur is useless. We have nothing. We are two people who are trying to change an entire country, against what just about everyone wants. There is no point in getting ourselves executed when we could wait for a better opportunity."

"This is the opportunity!" Lanai shouts. "This is the time to act! This is the time to change things! We have the ability to make a difference, and yet you refuse to! For once in your life, stop looking out for your own skin and worry about someone else for one goddamn second!"

"I have no obligation to your cause, Lanai," says Silas curtly. "I have no reason to keep fighting in vain. All that is going to come of this venture is our executions."

Lanai shrugs. "Every rebellion needs a good martyr."

"You are starting to sound like the lunatics from District 5," Silas growls. "Is that what you want? You want this cause to be taken seriously, don't you? You want it to seem like something that is viable, that could actually happen. You don't want to be discredited as insane, do you?"

Lanai's shoulders deflate and she drums her fingertips on Silas's desktop. "I have a small proposition."

"…okay," Silas says apprehensively.

"Next year, you will need to appoint a new Head Gamemaker. I know it's up to the last Head Gamemaker, provided they haven't been executed, to pick the new one," Lanai says. "Who are you going to pick?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead yet," Silas admits, dropping back into his chair. He has a feeling he'll be here for a while.

"Then I propose you appoint me as the Head Gamemaker," Lanai says calmly, even though her excitement is evident in her voice.

Silas thinks about it for a moment. Lanai is on the Gamemaking team this year, as well as last year. She worked on mutts last year, and this year will be taking Aristotle's place as the tribute analysist…the only issue is what Graciela, and more importantly, _Ezra_, would think of his choice. After all, Lanai is inexperienced in Gamemaking, and tends to make unpredictable decisions. That is certainly not what Ezra wants. And what Ezra wants tends to be treated as gospel…he's basically turned Graciela into his puppet, and he's not even an adult yet! He's sixteen, a child, someone who could be fighting in the Games…

But with Lanai at the helm, Silas could step back and let her take control of the rebellion. She could deal with the mess in District 5. She could deal with Divinity Faust. Silas could just quietly raise his family and aid Lanai's efforts from afar.

"Okay," Silas says, nodding sharply. "I'll appoint you Head Gamemaker…"

"Silas, I could half-takeover this year," Lanai says, talking fast. "You could say you're training me for next year when I would actually take over and I could make a lot of the decisions like who we should rig to Victory and if it is viable to try to rescue tributes from the arena and then you wouldn't be at fault for my bad decision!"

"I would be at fault for allowing you to make them," Silas mutters. He raises his voice and says, "I think that's a wonderful idea, Lanai." And it is a wonderful idea; Silas just has to keep an eye on Lanai, that's all. He needs to make sure she doesn't make any insane choices that would get the whole Gamemaking team thrown in the trash.

Lanai grins excitedly. "Yes! I think everything is starting to look up for us, Silas. Speaking of which, could you let me know when District 1's train gets here? I need to speak to Divinity."

"Of course," Silas says, nodding once. "Now, this meeting has run slightly long, but do me a favor—don't tell anyone of this conversation, yes?"

"Yes!" Lanai exclaims. "Okay, thanks, Silas! I need to go watch some Reapings."

Silas watches her go, wondering if this the best or the worst decision he has ever made.

**A/N: Subplot time! We're bringing this back apparently. I'll probably regret writing this chapter in, like, an hour, but whatever! I'm happy with it now!**

**Also, please note that Lanai and Silas rigging the Victor will not change the outcome of the Games. Anyone can still win. I just have to come up with justification as to why they would be chosen as the best option. **

**1\. Thoughts on rigging the Victors?**

**2\. Thoughts on rescuing tributes?**

**3\. Thoughts on Lanai becoming Head Gamemaker next year?**

**4\. Who do you think Ezra is, and why are Silas and Lanai so afraid of him?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: so, half of our cast has been introduced! Out of all of them, who do you think might come out on top?**

**My answer: at the moment, I have like…four victor hopefuls? I haven't really come to a conclusion on any of it yet, though. **

**So, next chapter, we will meet Tamarah, Ainsley and Jayce!**

**-Amanda**


	11. Falling Out of Love

_Jayce Dotter, 18_

"_I'll do whatever it takes to achieve greatness...whatever it takes."_

_(Two Years Before the Reapings)_

Jayce doesn't really worry for herself. Sure, she's heard some horror stories about District 6. She's heard of murder and gang violence and the works.

But no. What she really worries about is Ishtar.

Jayce knows firsthand how clingy Ishtar is. After all, they've been dating for a year now. Of course, that relationship has now come to an end. Jayce is on her way to a brand-new life in District 6. It's a strange thought. District 12 is all she has ever known, and now she is leaving it behind.

And she loves Ishtar, she really does. But sometimes, even Jayce just can't handle Ishtar's constant need for attention. Dating Ishtar Marmaduke is a twenty-four hour a day job.

But when Jayce and Ishtar would kiss, it would be like the world stopped spinning for them. It felt as if time just paused until they were ready to pull away. When their lips met, Jayce could see herself spending her whole life with Ishtar Marmaduke. Sure, Ishtar could be kind of clingy and demanding, but that didn't mean Jayce didn't love her. After all, everyone has their flaws! Jayce prides herself on being able to look past those flaws and see the goodness in someone. And besides, people can change! If Jayce and Ishtar were to get married one day, surely Jayce could help Ishtar change. It's just because of Ishtar's upbringing. At least, that is what Jayce has convinced herself of.

Still, Jayce has to wonder how far her love will go. After all, love can only get you so far, and what Ishtar had proposed to her seemed…risky, at best.

Jayce is someone to always be looking to the future. Maybe it seemed like a good idea in the heat of the moment, but now Jayce is wondering what kind of trouble she could find herself wading through. The Hunger Games are no laughing matter. They are no way for a pair of lovebirds to reunite. No matter how many sponsors it could gain them, that would only work if it were not by choice.

Maybe she'll change her mind when it actually comes down it. Maybe she'll make good on her promise to Ishtar in two years. Maybe Jayce will decide it's okay to risk it all for the sake of love. But she has her doubts. After all, a lot can happen in two years.

And Ishtar has no idea how easy it is for someone to fall out of love.

…

_(One Year Before the Reapings)_

"_Vote for Jayce Dotter!" _Her posters, hung up all around school, scream to her peers. _"She's the best for the job!" _

Most people agree with that statement. Jayce refuses to let herself get cocky, but she would be lying if she were to say she doesn't think she'll win. Besides, she's going up against Romeo Renault, and only Romeo Renault. Everyone else who was considering running decided against it when they found out Jayce is also on the ballot.

It's…well, insanely flattering? It's not as if it's surprising or anything, it just feels good to be validated by her peers. It feels extremely good to know that her hard work is finally paying off, and that she has most of the student body on her side.

"Another one ripped down?" Jayce says aloud as she looks at the shredded remains of one of her posters. Romeo and his supporters keep ripping her posters off the walls—but Jayce does have around seven-hundred, thirty-nine ones in a box back home—in some sort of attempt to stop Jayce's campaign from gaining momentum. Of course, they are a little bit late for that. Jayce is practically already student-body president. She's well on her way to becoming the valedictorian, maybe even getting to attend one of the universities in District 3. It's something very few people from any district aside from 3 itself actually get to attend. People don't just move districts every day, after all.

"Really?" Drew says, sounding annoyed. "Do you have any more on you?"

"No," Jayce answers, kicking herself for it. She should have expected that Romeo would rip down more of her posters! She should have brought more with her today. It just slipped her mind, and that shouldn't happen! She was the organized one, she always had everything in order. She should have been able to tell that she would need more posters today. "I'll bring one…one in tomorrow."

"You know, Jayce…just 'cause you don't have a poster on you right now doesn't mean you're awful," Drew says, looking at Jayce oddly.

Jayce laughs. "You read me like a book."

"Well, books aren't really my thing but…" Drew trails off, a bright, beautiful smile on her face. In that moment, Jayce really, really wants to kiss her. Not only is she insanely attractive, but her excitement for life is just infectious. She is good at bringing out the best in Jayce…she can really see herself spending the rest of her life with Drew. "You are."

Those two words are like a passionate confession of love when it comes to Drew. Jayce steps closer to her, staring deeply into those intelligent, excited eyes she so adores. She really, really, _really_ wants to kiss her.

"Get a fucking room," a voice says behind her, ruining the moment.

Jayce whirls around to find herself face-to-face with Romeo Renault, who has become her bitter enemy as of late. No one doubts that Jayce is going to beat him, yet he still is convinced he can win. Jayce doesn't really get why, but she can't help but admire his dedication.

"What do you want, Romeo?" Drew snaps, stepping away from Jayce.

"Just wanted to update you on my plans for the school once I win the presidency," Romeo answers tersely.

Jayce stares at the ground for a moment, heaving a long-suffering sigh. "Student-body presidents really don't have that much power."

"Then why are you bothering to run, since you are so power hungry?" Romeo snarks. He reaches up and rips the remains of Jayce's campaign poster off the wall.

"I don't care for the little amount of power it will give to me," Jayce replies calmly. "I simply feel that I can do the best for my peers in a position with little to give back to me."

It's almost like it takes Romeo a moment to process everything Jayce just said. "Yeah, well…_I_ don't care about the small amount of power I'll have…"

"Sure," Drew mutters bitterly behind Jayce's back.

Jayce steps back, puts a hand on Drew's shoulder, and continues. "It's clear to see that you do, in fact, care for power. I just want to do and be the best that I can be."

"Yeah, and plump up your resume so you can get out of this hellhole and go to school in 3," Romeo says. "I see through you. I can read you like a fucking book, Jayce Dotter. You're just some power-hungry maniac who doesn't care about anyone else…"

Jayce shakes her head slightly and meets Romeo's fiery eyes. "I don't take kindly to being insulted outright, Romeo. I do believe this conversation is supposed to be civil, and no argument ever gets anywhere if one side falls to insulting their opposer." Jayce grabs Drew's hand and starts walking down the hallway, leaving Romeo fuming.

"Yeah, yeah, walk away, you coward! Because you've just always got to have the last word, is that it?"

Jayce tightens her grip on Drew's hand, but keeps walking.

…

_(Three Months Before the Reapings)_

Drew leans forward and presses her lips against Jayce's one final time before they both pull away. "I'm sorry to cut this short," Drew says. "but, I have to get home to help with dinner." She kisses Jayce on the nose. "Love you."

"Love you too," Jayce calls after her. She dusts off her pant legs and takes a seat at her desk, ready to knock out that essay that's due in two months. It feels so good to have something done, even if she doesn't need it for months.

On the wall above her desk is one of her old _vote for Jayce Dotter_ posters. Drew jokingly hung it there a few months ago, and Jayce doesn't have the heart to take it down.

At least her campaign turned out well. Romeo threw a (expected) temper tantrum when Jayce won with a commanding eighty-seven percent of the votes, but Jayce still won. There was nothing Romeo Renault could do about it.

If having her homework done two months early feels go, being student body president is fucking addictive. It feels amazing to have her hard work pay off. When she graduates in July, she'll be valedictorian as well. With any luck, her application to the universities in District 3 will be accepted, and she'll get her chance to really, truly do something with her life.

Of course, when she goes to District 3, she'll miss Drew like hell. On her finger sits a simple golden band; a promise ring. She and Drew have promised themselves to each other. If they get married before Jayce goes to 3, then Drew can tag along. They can make a new life for themselves in a new place, without anything from 6 holding them down.

Her pencil scratches furiously along the paper as she thinks to the future. The future for Jayce Dotter and Drew Huck is so, so bright. It's going to be glorious, and Jayce will finally see everything she has so determinedly worked for come to fruition.

Suddenly the tip of her pencil snaps. She sighs in frustration before setting the broken pencil in her writing utensil mug. Only as she slides the pencil back into the mug does she realize that every pencil inside is broken or too dull to write with. And, she can't write with a pen. Then the entire page will be covered in inked out words when she thinks of a better way to word a sentence!

Jayce opens the bottom drawer on her desk, sifting through the various disorganized items for a sharpened pencil. She kicks herself for letting this drawer get so chaotic; it's a mess! She can't find anything in here…

Her hand brushes against the cold metal of a picture frame, shoved at the bottom of the drawer. Likely so she would never have to look at it again.

Curiosity gets the better of Jayce, and she pulls out the picture frame, essay completely forgotten.

The picture shows two people, one of which is Jayce. The other is a person Jayce has hardly given second thought to for two years; Ishtar Marmaduke.

Just the sight of Ishtar makes several feelings explode in Jayce's mind; guilt, longing, love, annoyance, adoration, just to name a few. Here Jayce is, wearing a promise ring for another girl, and Ishtar is back home, planning to volunteer for the Hunger Games for her…

Jayce stares at the picture for a good few minutes. God, she and Ishtar were such fools. They were so childish, thinking any of this would ever work out.

But Jayce is happier here in 6; everything is so much brighter. Drew loves her, and isn't nearly as demanding as Ishtar was. Jayce actually has a future of being _somebody_, instead of just the wife of Ishtar Marmaduke, the strange rich girl from District 12. Jayce is going to be someone, someone to be remembered, in fact.

She shakes her head as she sets the picture frame back in the drawer and pushes it closed. _Oh, Ishtar. You have no idea how easy it is to fall out of love. _

_Tamarah 'Tam' Colt, 16_

"_When it rains, it pours. Suck it up, 'cause it ain't going to last long."_

_(Two Years Before the Reapings)_

"So…I was wondering if you would…go out with me?"

Tam shakes her head, berating herself over and over. "No, no, no! I can't ask her out like that! That sounds way too…way too…ugh! This is never going to work."

She sits on the ground like that, notepad in hand, muttering to herself, for a long while before she decides that alcohol will help her. Alcohol always makes things better. Even just a few sips from a drink can change everything. Who knows, maybe it will even give her the confidence to go ask Fawn after a drink or two.

Besides, Tamarah is no stranger to raiding the alcohol cabinet. It's noticeably smaller than it used to be, back when Tam was just eight. But back then, she didn't drink. She only started around four years ago. Her dad was always happy when he drank some of that stuff, so why wouldn't Tam be as well?

And she totally is. As soon as a few gulps of that beautiful amber liquid has gone down her throat, she feels more alive. It's like a drug, except there are no consequences! (Well, Tam knows that is not_ strictly_ true, but whatever. It makes her feel good.)

To top it all off, no one else is home right now. Virgil is at work. Mom and Marrah are out shopping. Tam has the whole house to herself, which is why it's okay to talk to herself in the middle of the living room.

Once she has a bottle of gin secured in her hand, she returns to her spot in the living room with a shot glass. She'll only have _one_. That should open her up enough to come up with a way to ask Fawn out without making her completely loopy. Tam is experienced in how much alcohol she can handle. She knows that she'll be blackout drunk after…well, some amount of shots. By that point, she's kind of done counting how many she has had.

Tam carefully pours one, toasts the air, and downs it all in one gulp.

"Ah," sighs Tam as she sets down the shot glass and leans back against the rough carpet. "Yeeeeaaaah, this exactly what I needed."

She stares happily at the ceiling for a long while, time just passing by without her notice or permission. Eventually she sits up and grabs her notepad. She sits with her pencil poised over the paper for around thirty seconds before she decides she should have another shot. That will make the words flow more easily. Surely. That's how alcohol works, you know.

Tam pours herself another shot and gulps it down. "Damn, does alcohol feels good…" she mumbles, once again picking up her notepad and pencil. She starts scribbling out shaky words before she pauses. "Just one more shot."

Three shots later, Tam is struck with an idea. "Why am I wastin' time here writin' a speech when I could just ask her now?" It's such a fantastic idea she can't tell why she didn't see it before. She doesn't need to have some pre-written speech for Fawn; all she needs to do is go ask! Of course Fawn will say yes; they're best friends, and Tam has seen the way Fawn looks at her when she thinks Tam isn't paying attention. It's meant to be.

Excited, she hops to her feet, finding her movement to be a little shaky. She grimaces, takes one last swig of gin, and heads for the door.

The sun is barely peeking over the horizon in the distance, showering Tam with the last rays of light for the evening. She ignores the fabulous sunset and marches on to Fawn's house.

When she arrives to Fawn's, the redhead in question is halfway out the front door. "Oh! Tam! Hi," Fawn exclaims, seemingly surprised to see Tam on her doorstep.

"Hey, Fawn," Tam greets excitedly in a slightly slurred voice.

"Are you…are you okay?" Fawn asks uncertainly, looking Tam up and down as if she expects to find a stab wound on her torso or a bullet hole on her collarbone.

"'m fine," Tam assures her. "I was just comin' ta ask if you'd…you'd wanna go out with me?"

"Go out…with _you_?" Fawn asks, sounding disgusted.

Tam smiles bigger, hoping she is mistaking the emotions behind Fawn's voice. "Yeah…ta like, dinner, or somethin'?"

"That's…no! Gross," Fawn says, shaking her head vehemently. "You thought…you thought that I liked _girls_? That's…just, ew. No!"

"Oh…I…I uh…I didn' mean…to offend you or anythin'," Tam stammers, shocked.

"And are you…_drunk_?" Fawn exclaims, horrified. She shoves past Tam and stalks quickly down the street, disappearing into the growing darkness.

See, that's the good thing about alcohol. It dampens emotions. It pushes away the horror that Tam knows she probably Tam doesn't really feel anything. She just stands there, staring at the shadows that slowly crawl toward her.

The sun is completely gone from view by the time Tam turns and runs home, trying to fight the tears that are suddenly pricking at her eyes.

…

_(Three Months Before the Reapings)_

"I got the booze!" Boone cries as he walks into the old barn, holding three bottles of whiskey in his arms. "One for each o' us!"

Tam lethargically reaches for one of the bottles from her spot on a pile of hay. "Good. I'm actually gettin' _sober_ for once."

"That's a first," Flynn remarks, handing Boone a bottle opener. "Remind me where you get this stuff again?"

Boone pops open one of the bottles and hands it to Tam, who gratefully takes a long swig. "Got it from a bartender, down town. Odessa Flaherty."

"I've been to her place," Tam says, punctuating her sentence with another drink. The whiskey burns it way down her throat in a surprisingly pleasant fashion. "It's grungy. Dirty. A lot of old, freaky men gettin' drunk. So, all in all, a pretty cool place. And it's fun ta drink with other like-minded people. I've even seen Celinda Oxford there before."

"Damn, Cel Oxford?" Boone says cheerfully, swinging his whiskey bottle around wildly. A small amount of the whiskey spills from the glass and splashes on the ground. Tam stares at it for a moment, thinking of how much of a waste that was. Those few little drops of alcohol could have given her a buzz later…

"Yeah. Cel Oxford," Tam answers. "I talked ta her once or twice, even. She's cool. Rude drunk, though."

"Isn't everyone?" Flynn asks between swigs.

"Nah, I'm a happy drunk," Tam explains. "I just get…floaty, ya know?"

"When you drink, you feel like you're doing drugs?" Boone asks incredulously, giving Tam an odd look.

"No!" Tam exclaims. "Not high…just happy." She tucks her free hand behind her head and shifts to a more comfortable position. "Isn't this livin'?"

"Suuuure," Flynn murmurs. "You don' happen to have anymore of that stuff, do ya, Boone?"

"Nah, that's all Odessa gave ta me," Boone says, albeit regretfully. "I can try ta get more tomorrow, if that'll make ya two happy."

"Yeah, and I'll be sober-er than shit by that time," Tam groans. "Being sober sucks."

"Amen to that!" Flynn cries, lifting his bottle of whiskey drunkenly into the air.

"A toast," Tam declares, lifting her bottle as well.

"To what?" asks Boone.

"I dunno," Tam admits. "Whatever."

Boone looks skeptical, but they toast to whatever anyway. Tam takes possibly the longest swig any of them have taken tonight, which leaves her head spinning and her vision slightly blurry. "Ahhhhhh…that hits the spot," she murmurs, shutting her eyes for a few moments. "Doesn't it feel good? To just…not have to think?"

"Oh, yeah," Flynn agrees.

Tam watches as Boone turns his bottle upside down and finds that he's drank all of it. "Ah, fuck," Boone growls. "Shouldn't've drank so fast…" His face suddenly lights up with an idea. "Hey, there's a fancy bar a few blocks away…we could go 'round back and grab some o' the booze…"

"Nah," Flynn says. "We'll just survive sober…don' need to get whipped tonight."

"Yeah," Tam agrees. Just this morning, she saw a girl younger than she is tied to the whipping post in the town square, covered in blood. Tam certainly doesn't need to find herself there. Then she would probably prefer to be sober. "I don' wanna get whipped. Don' need any more scars, ya know?"

"Mm," Boone hums, clearly not agreeing with them.

"Don' go get yourself killed," Tam warns. "Then where would Flynn and I get our booze?"

Boone bursts out laughing at that remark.

"Here," Tam says, passing her bottle to him. "We can share."

In lieu of an answer, Boone takes a long drink from Tam's bottle. "Thanks, Tammy."

"Any time," Tam slurs as she takes the bottle back from him. "We gonna sleep here tonight? I don' wanna go home; Mom won' be happy and Virgil has this look of disappointment he gives me when I come home drunk so I think I'd rather sleep here in the hay."

"Yeah, we can stay here," Flynn agrees. "Sound good ta you, Boone?"

Boone doesn't answer; he's already fallen asleep.

"A whole bottle of whiskey will do that ta ya," Tam mumbles, at last draining her bottle of every last drop in the glass. "G'night…"

The world is an awful place; Tam knows firsthand. But, when you just let yourself drift away from that with the aid of alcohol…well, existence is _almost_ tolerable.

_Ainsley Platte, 14_

"_I'm really weird and I hate myself but you're not weird enough and I hate you more."_

_(Seven Months Before the Reapings)_

If there is one thing that Ainsley Platte is sure of, it's that there is a big, big difference between learning and going to school. She doesn't learn anything of use at school. All they tell her is about harvesting grain, how to bake grain into bread, how to plant grain, what kind of grain is best to plant in what season…it's all grain, grain, grain. Like, Ainsley knows that District 9's industry is grain, but would it kill them to teach some sort of math, or maybe even _history_?

They stopped teaching math when Ainsley was seven. Most of the kids around her only know how to add and subtract. Some of them don't even know that. Reading went out the window around the same time as math did. History is revisited for one week a year—the same week that the Capitol finally triumphed over the rebels in the rebellion—to force feed the students of District 9 Capitol propaganda. It's not exactly the most stimulating syllabus Ainsley has ever seen.

And thus, Ainsley has perfected the art of appearing like she's listening, but is in fact worlds away. Her younger brothers, Travis and Dylan, call it "sleeping with her eyes open". Her teachers, however, call it "insolence" and give her detention.

Which is the reason that Ainsley is sitting here, right now, staring off into space in Mrs. Emmerson's near-empty classroom long after school has concluded.

_Joke's on them, _Ainsley thinks, carefully scratching the words "fuck this hellhole" into her desk with her fingernails. _I can daydream here just as well as I can in the classroom. Maybe even easier, since there's no useless teacher droning on in the background about grain._

She continues scratching her inappropriate message into the wood, noticing that the desk is already littered with notes. _F + I Forever. Rylan was here. Help me, please! I hate school. Fuck the Capitol! _She catches Mrs. Emmerson pointedly glancing at her out of the corner of her eye, but shrugs it off and continues scrapping away.

"Ahem, Miss Platte?"

The next thing she knows, Mrs. Emmerson is looming over her desk with her hands on her hips. The first thing that comes to mind is how much she resembles what Ainsley imagines that one character from that one book she read last week about the girl who got trapped in a mirror dimension where everyone was out to kill her…

"What exactly are you doing?" Mrs. Emmerson asks sharply, bringing Ainsley back to reality.

"Nothing," Ainsley answers casually, shrugging but continuing to scratch her fingernails into the wood.

"That is Capitol property, Miss Platte," Mrs. Emmerson growls. Ainsley still doesn't look up, but she can practically taste Mrs. Emmerson's anger. It's an oddly funny thought, and Ainsley has to choke down her laugh. Mrs. Emmerson thinks she's _so_ scary

"Cool. You want an award or something?" Ainsley says nonchalantly, digging her fingernail through a particularly tough piece of the desk.

"I could have you arrested and whipped for that," Mrs. Emmerson threatens.

"I don't care," Ainsley answers, finishing carving her message with a flourish. "Look, it says 'fuck this hellhole'."

"Come with me, Miss Platte," says Mrs. Emmerson, grabbing Ainsley roughly by the arm and dragging her out of her chair.

"Let me go!" Ainsley cries, pulling her arm out of Mrs. Emmerson's grasp. It's not that she doesn't like being touched—in fact, physical contact is one of Ainsley's favorite things—it's that Mrs. Emmerson just—grabbed her! She just grabbed her and tried to drag her somewhere and that's not okay! Teachers can't just _do that_!

Anger filling her vision and veins, Ainsley throws her desk onto its side and bolts from the classroom. Her feet slap against the floor as she charges blindly through the nearly-empty school, echoing loudly through the previously-silent hallways. She bursts through the back doors and sprints through the grain fields out back, not caring for the stalks of wheat that she knocks over. Wheat can be replanted. Ainsley cannot.

At last, she reaches a spot deep in the endless fields of wheat and sits down. She brushes loose pieces of wheat off her clothing and lays back, not caring for the stalks that she crushes. It's not her wheat. Not her wheat, not her problem.

She can't believe that Mrs. Emmerson just…did that! She hopes that woman gets fired. She tried to have Ainsley whipped, for carving a harmless message into a desk! Was anyone ever going to care that she scratched stuff into the wood? No! No one cares. No one cares, and nor will they ever.

Aside from, of course, Mrs. Emmerson. Figures.

Ainsley takes a deep breath, staring up at the sky without really seeing it. And she's supposed to go back to that hellhole tomorrow! To learn about grain and bread and harvests! It's such a waste of her time. There are so many better things she could do than sit in a desk and be told what wheat is for the seventh time.

After all, there are books to be read, worlds to be created, places to be seen, people to met! Ainsley has no good reason to sit there in that desk, staring blankly off into space and waiting for her teachers to scream at her for so-called "insolence". Even just showing up to school is completely pointless; they don't learn anything of use. When in life will someone walk up to her, ask her when she can plant wheat, and stab her if she doesn't know? Never! People don't do that. When she grows up and starts working in the fields, they'll give her seeds, tell them to plant them, and then tell her to harvest them. She doesn't need to know what she's planting, nor when to harvest it.

Ainsley clenches her fists and sits up. She doesn't _want_ to spend the rest of her life planting and harvesting grain. Unfortunately, there isn't much she can do about that.

…

_(Six Months and Twenty-Three Days before the Reapings)_

"So, Ainsley, I'm sure you know why I've asked you here."

"Yeah, whatever," Ainsley mutters, staring down at her lap. "I get it, I get it. I'm such an _issue_ and you want to just _talk it out_, and somehow that's just going to _fix everything_. We've been here before, Mr. Calhoun."

The counselor in question purses his lips and folds his hands on the desk between them. "Ainsley, I know you don't think anything you learn here is worth your while—"

"If you really knew that, we wouldn't be here," Ainsley growls. "I would have already dropped out of this hellhole."

Mr. Calhoun powers on as if he never heard her. "So, Ainsley, not only did you damage Capitol property but you stopped a teacher from disciplining you for that previous offense. Normally, this would warrant Peacekeeper involvement, but judging by your record—" He hands Ainsley a manila folder. "—we're going to be doing these sessions once a week for the next few months. As long as you show up _and_ cooperate, this incident will stay between you, me and Mrs. Emmerson, alright?"

Ainsley grumbles some sort of unintelligible agreement. She may hate it here, but she would really hope to not find herself tied to the whipping post in the town square. That is one staple of District 9 that Ainsley definitely wants no part in.

"Ainsley, can you tell me why you hate school so much?" Mr. Calhoun requests. Ainsley glares at him. Of course he's going to word like Ainsley has a choice in how she answers.

"We learn nothing of value," Ainsley says with a shrug.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I don't give a fuck about grain!" Ainsley yells.

Mr. Calhoun heaves a long-suffering sigh. "Cooperate, remember, cooperate."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

"So is that why you don't pay attention in class? Because you feel that you aren't learning anything important?" Mr. Calhoun asks, unfolding his hands and starting to write in the manila folder.

"I'm not learning anything important," Ainsley responds curtly. "You've heard about one type of grain, you've heard of them all."

"Be that as it may, you still are required to pay some semblance of attention in class," Mr. Calhoun says. "Your grades matter, Ainsley. If you really hate it here so much, those grades could be your ticket out of here. So why don't you pay more attention?"

"I'm not gonna go to university," Ainsley says.

"Then what are you going to do with your life, if you so refuse to work in the fields?"

"I thought this was a counseling session, not a shared existential crisis," growls Ainsley. She goes to stand. "So, if you're not going to help, I'll just head back to class now—"

"Remember the deal, Ainsley," Mr. Calhoun says pointedly.

_Right_, Ainsley thinks. "Fine. Whatever."

"Since we're both a little bit worked up at the moment, maybe we can try to pick this up tomorrow?" Mr. Calhoun phrases it like a question, but Ainsley knows it's an order. It makes Ainsley's blood boil. She hates being told what to do.

"Sounds wonderful to me," Ainsley says sarcastically.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Ainsley. Please try to behave in the meantime," Mr. Calhoun says pointedly.

"I'll count the seconds," Ainsley mutters as she walks out of his office.

Like she needs counseling. She's clearly not the problem! It's Mrs. Emmerson, Mr. Calhoun, everybody else who is the problem! Ainsley would know if she were the issue, and she's not! She's just doing what's right, and no one else understands! And now they're trying to fix her, because they don't want to be responsible for her being messed up! They think all of their problems will go away with a few poorly done counseling sessions!

They have no _idea_ just how wrong they are! They're delusional, that's what they are!

Ainsley glares at the floor and clenches her fists at her sides. Oh, she will show them who's the problem, and it sure as hell isn't her.

**A/N: It has been a hot second since I updated this, but in my defense, I just got a new computer so that's been taking some adapting. But I am back and ready to get back into it!**

**And my birthday is on the thirteenth! There probably won't be another chapter until then, since I'm going to Chicago to see Hamilton and won't have much time to write. **

**1\. Thoughts on Jayce?**

**2\. Thoughts on Tamarah?**

**3\. Thoughts on Ainsley?**

**4\. Which of these three is your favorite?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: which one of these three seems most like a Victor?**

**So, next up is Scoria, Afandina and Navarro. **

**-Amanda**


	12. Lady and the Tramp

_Scoria Primer, 18_

"_I'm a killer. One meant for the Hunger Games. That's all you need to know."_

_(Six Years Before the Reapings)_

_Smack! Smack! Smack!_

Scoria's hand flies, faster and faster with each throw, as her hands grab for a knife, over and over and over again. The blade of each knife cuts into the palm of her hand, but it's not like a little bit of blood has ever stopped her before. It's nothing like the scars on her back. It's nothing the memories of her childhood, of what she is meant to become. Of what she already is.

"Hi!"

_Smack! Smack! Smack!_

"Hello?"

_Smack! Smack! Smack!_

Scoria grabs at another knife and lobs it at the target—another bullseye, the ninety-seventh this week, and it's only Tuesday. Her vision is practically tunneled, her eyes only seeing the target, another knife, another smack as another blade hits the target…

"…hello? Anyone home?"

_Smack! Smack! Smack!_

Everyone in the Academy should know to leave her alone. You don't just walk up to Scoria Primer and strike up a conversation. _It must be someone new to Stander,_ Scoria muses. _But you'd think they'd be smart enough to just leave me alone…_

"That's really impressive. Your knife throwing, I mean. Man, I wish I could throw knifes like that…"

That's what makes Scoria stop. Not the lack of knives, not the annoyance of being pestered, not the aching in her back.

No, it's just that Scoria can appreciate a sincere compliment. It's not exactly something she gets a taste of often. No one at home gives her compliments or encouragement. All it ever is is what she could do better, what she is doing poorly, and not what she already has done amazingly.

"Are you listening to me? I feel like you're not listening to me."

Scoria carefully reaches for another knife, her hands groping pointlessly for a moment before she realizes she has exhausted her supply. Shaking her head, she turns to the boy standing next to her, her eyes sliding over his face without really seeing it. "What do you want?" she growls, her eyes narrow.

"You just have talent, that's all," the boy answers, shrugging. "Like, you might really have a shot at this thing, you know?"

"Okay," Scoria says, her voice neutral and emotionless.

"This is the part where you say thank you," the boy jokes. "and I'll say you're welcome."

Scoria glares at him. "Thanks," she grounds out through her teeth, staring at him with fire in her eyes. "Who are you, anyways?"

"Favio," the boy says simply. "I'm pretty sure I know your name but…"

"Scoria," she answers, pushing the empty knife rack across the floor. She starts toward her target, looking at the decimation she created, hoping that Favio will take the hint and leave her alone.

"Woah! Are they going to have to throw that target away?" Favio asks excitedly, the awe in his voice evident.

Scoria grinds her teeth closer together and doesn't answer. She starts to pull the knives out of the target. She tosses them over her shoulder once she removes them the target, hoping that maybe one of them will catch Favio on the leg or shoulder and he'll be forced to leave.

"Woah, you should be careful with those! Are those real knives?"

Scoria glares over her shoulder. "Leave me alone."

Favio either doesn't hear her or chooses to ignore her. Scoria has a certain feeling it's the latter.

"Go away," Scoria tries, carelessly tossing another knife over her shoulder.

"You don't have many friends," the boy states.

Scoria raises one of her eyebrows at him. "Thanks for sharing."

"No, I'm just saying…you seem kind of lonely. I figured I'd talk to you but…"

_But_ _you clearly have no interest in talking to me_, Scoria thinks, hoping that's what will come at the end of this conversation.

"…you couldn't, like, show me a few things, could you?"

Scoria groans internally and throws another knife over her shoulder. "No. I don't give away my tricks."

"Oh," Favio mumbles. "That's unfortunate."

_It really isn't_, Scoria thinks. "Are you done yet?"

"What's your favorite color?" Favio asks suddenly.

"Oh my God, leave me alone!" Scoria cries. She whirls around, her fists flying through the air. In a moment, her fist slams into Favio's face, sending him tumbling to the floor. His jacket catches on a rack of spears behind them, which goes sliding across the floor.

After a moment of laying on the ground, Favio stands up, looking at Scoria unsurely. He reaches up and touches the skin around his eye, which is quickly turning black and blue. "You hit really hard."

Scoria just stares disbelievingly at him.

…

_(Three Years Before the Reapings)_

"I, uh, made us dinner, if you're interested." Favio's smile, unsurprisingly, makes Scoria's heart flutter in a way only Favio can cause. "Do you like spaghetti? There's only one plate but I could only afford one plate…"

"It's just fine," Scoria answers, putting her hand on Favio's shoulder. "And so is spaghetti." Spaghetti is not something Scoria gets a taste of often. Her parents aren't exactly the kind of people who like to have meals with their daughter while talking about what she did that day and whatnot. They much prefer to throw her to the dogs and let the Academy deal with her until she screws up. Then, of course, they'll take matters into their own hands. But Scoria prides herself on avoiding that outcome as much as possible.

"As long as it's with you." Favio shrugs, taking her hand and leading her over to the table in the kitchen. The fluorescent lights on are, and Scoria can hear the voices of Favio's parents upstairs. It's nothing romantic, but for some reason, that makes it better.

"Corny," Scoria says, shaking her head. She sits down at the table across from Favio and picks up one of the forks. "But I'll take it to, since we're together, and no one is bothering us about anything."

Scoria thinks of Favio as her respite from the world. They've been a thing for a few months now, only seeing each other when no one else is around. After all, if Scoria's parents catch wind of their relationship…Scoria doesn't want to think about that possibility. Her parents think she can't afford any distractions, that all it will do is hinder her chances of winning something Scoria doesn't really want in the first place. The thought of her parents finding out about Favio is maybe Scoria's only fear.

"I'm extremely corny, and I'm proud," Favio declares, grabbing the other fork. "I'll be corny for the rest of my life."

"Sure you will," Scoria says, shrugging. "Are you going to drop out of the Academy?"

Favio glances down at the table, his resolve seemingly momentarily crumbling. "Well…maybe. I don't know if I want the risk anymore, you know? I know I'll never be good enough to win, or even get chosen as the volunteer, but…"

Scoria is silent for a moment as she gathers her words. "I suppose that makes sense."

"Stay safe, will you?" Favio says as he twirls spaghetti around his fork. "You're practically a shoe-in for the female in a few years. I don't know what I'd do if you died."

It makes heat rise in Scoria's cheeks. She hides her face, quickly moving to shove a spoonful of spaghetti into her mouth to avoid having to answer. She chews slowly as Favio continues.

"You've gotta promise me that you won't die," he says. "I know it's the Hunger Games, I know it's a one-out-of-twenty-four chance that you'll make it out alive but…stay alive. Please."

Scoria's heart flutters again at the little "please" tacked to the end of his sentence. "I'll do my best." But her best is never enough. Scoria has known for all of her life that her best can always be better. She'll never be perfect; she'll never be absolutely ensured of her Victory. But that doesn't make her afraid. Unlike so many tributes from 2 before her, dying doesn't scare her. One day she'll die, and she doesn't care. No, what really scares her is dying too soon.

"That's all you can do," Favio agrees. Scoria knows it's meant to sound sweet, but the only thought in her head is that her best will never be enough. It likely won't be enough for her to return to Favio. That scares her.

Scoria digs her fork into the plate of spaghetti, slowly twisting the noodles around the prongs. "Favio…are you afraid of dying?" Sure, it's kind of a weird topic for dates, but no one has ever accused Scoria of knowing how to converse like a normal human being.

Favio seems to consider it for a moment. "No," he decides. "No, I don't fear dying."

It sort of puts Scoria's mind at ease. "Do you fear…someone else dying?"

"Someone close to me, yeah," Favio says immediately. "I guess it matters less when it's someone random on the street."

"Yeah…" Scoria says, her voice slowly trailing off. She leans further over the plate of spaghetti, still twirling her fork. Around and around and around it spins, no longer picking up any of the noodles.

She looks up to find herself nose-to-nose with Favio. She breaths out slowly…

…and suddenly they're kissing. Suddenly Favio's lips are on hers, and she's kissing him back, and oh lord it feels wonderful, it's more alive than Scoria has ever felt, it's like electricity is running through her veins in place of her blood—

Favio pulls away far too quickly for Scoria's liking. His face is flushed, and Scoria figures her own is as well. She's remarkably flustered for someone who likes to think she has a good hold on her emotions.

"Wow," she mumbles, still twirling her fork.

"Yeah. Wow," Favio agrees.

It may be the first time Scoria has felt real, true emotion in so, so long. Everything she's used to is so dull, so grayed to the point where it no longer really feels like emotion.

And _damn_ does it feel good.

…

_(Two Years Before the Reapings)_

"Scoria, hello."

"You wanted to see me?" Scoria asks, her voice carefully void of emotion.

Her mother's pale face stares back at her, her eyes dark and cold. "Of course. Come." She gestures for Scoria to follow her deeper into the house, where she sees all of the lamps are turned off. It creates a sense of foreboding that Scoria is quick to squash. "Now, Scoria…we have reason to believe you have been…_fornicating_ with someone."

Scoria freezes where she stands for a solid second before she starts to move again. As she tries to keep her breathing under control, she looks around the high-ceilinged living room, trying to show her mother that there is nothing to worry about. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says, her voice flat and cold.

"I think you do," her mother answers. "Come, we have something to show you…"

Scoria's blood runs cold as her mother leads her toward the door to the basement. The very same basement where she earned the scars on her back, the same basement where she was so rigorously trained before she could ever go to Stander. The basement of the home of the Head Peacekeeper is, surprisingly, unfinished. Or perhaps when her father commissioned the home to be built, that was one of his requests. "I assure you, Mother, I have not been fornicating with anybody."

Her mother is silent as she opens the door to the basement. Scoria can hear voices within, which makes her legs shake as she walks as straight as she possibly can down the steps.

The color drains from her face at the sight of what the basement holds.

Her father stands by the opposite wall, a bloody bat in his hands as he paces around a lump bound to the wall. After a moment, Scoria realize that it's a human-shaped lump—no, a _Favio_-shaped lump. She nearly chokes on her own spit, unable to comprehend how her parents found out, why they are doing this, why they would ever touch her precious Favio and oh, they are going to pay for ever laying a finger on him—

She hears the lock turn on the door to the stairs. Her mother joins them after a moment, placing her hand on the small of Scoria's back and shoving her forward.

"This is Favio," her mother says. "I'm sure you know who he is."

Scoria doesn't trust herself to speak.

"I've heard that you and Favio here have been engaging in such acts unspeakable," her mother continues.

"Oh, Scoria. I thought we taught you better," her father says, lifting his bat again.

Favio lifts his head shakily and stares at Scoria will pleading, terrified eyes. She can see the cuts and bruises that cover his face, and her jaw falls open at the sight of her precious, beloved, amazing, wonderful Favio in so much pain.

"I thought—" _thwack!_ "—we said—" _thwack!_ "—no—" _thwack!_ "—distractions!"

For good measure, her father slams the bat against Favio's chest a few more times. Scoria can hear ribs cracking under the pressure as Favio cries out in pain. She watches as the tears in his eyes spill over, trickling down his cheeks and cutting paths through the blood.

"And now, as punishment for everything you've done, you're going to take this bat…" Her father grabs her roughly by the shoulders and shoves the bat into her shaking arms. "…and you going to beat him until he stops moving."

The bat hits the ground with a clatter. Tears of her own prick at her eyes, threatening to spill over and pour down her cheeks. After a moment, her father strikes her across the face. "Now, girl."

She kneels down and shakily picks up the bat, approaching Favio as he shakes and stares at her. _It's going to be okay_; she can hear him saying. When she would come to him with blood on her back and cuts in her skin, he would hold her and assure her that everything would work out. _It's going to be okay._

With shaky hands, she lifts the bat, and strikes him with all of her might on his head. _Just one hit. Just one hit and he'll die, and he won't feel the pain and I won't have to see the light leave his eyes and he'll be okay, he'll be okay, we'll be okay, we'll be okay, I'll be okay—_

His head drops against his chest, but she can it still rising and falling sporadically with his breaths.

Her father approaches him. "Not dead yet, is he?"

Scoria swallows thickly and hits him again. And again. And again. And again. On and on and on she hits him, until there is no more breath in his lungs and no more tears in her eyes. Until her father has hit her black and blue and bloody. Until she kills the love of her life, her best friend, the only person in the world that really matters. The only person that could make her feel anything.

_Navarro Lune, 12_

"_I'm king, bitch!"_

_(Six Months Before the Reapings)_

_**(TW for rape)**_

The late-night winter air is biting as Navarro slides along on the sidewalk. The cement is slick with ice, making walking more difficult than it should be. Travis, from behind Navarro's back, takes tiny baby steps along the ice, but Navarro elects to slide down the sidewalk.

Wind nips at his uncovered face as he peers down alleyway after alleyway, searching for the right place with the right person inside. He can hear Travis mumbling something about the cold and the hour behind him, but he gives it no second thought. Just because Travis is cold doesn't mean everyone else is.

His feet slide along the ice as he prances back and forth across the sidewalk. There's no one else on the streets. It's so cold that he doubts there are even any shady deals going on in the various alleys they pass in their travels.

But, it's just late enough that the evening shifts at Dauper's factory are just now ending. While Navarro and Travis have yet to run into anyone leaving the factory, Navarro has seen shadows of people as they make their way home through the cold.

Everything is dark as Navarro continues to peer down alleyways. He knows that eventually, he'll come upon what he's looking for.

"S-sir…" Travis mumbles nervously from behind Navarro. For someone at the ripe old age of twenty, Travis has a remarkably small amount of spine. He gets anxious at every turn, is stuck in a loop of paranoia, and fears a twelve-year-old over anything else. It's not like Navarro cares. Honestly, Navarro finds it rather entertaining. To have that much power over someone…well, it feels fucking great. Of course, Travis isn't the only person that fears Navarro Lune, but he's Navarro's "favorite". "w-what ar—are w-we do—doing h-here?"

Navarro smirks at Travis over his shoulder. "Oh, you'll see. I've just got to find what I'm looking for…" He peers down another alleyway, looking at the dumpsters and bags of trash in search of a human being. Again, his search comes up empty.

"W-what…what i-is it th—that you're l-looking f—for, sir?"

Navarro's smirk grows wider at the sound of Travis's "sir". Oh, how he loves having titles. Titles make him even more important than he already is. "I can't tell you. That would ruin the surprise…"

"Sur…surprise, sir?" Travis takes a large step forward and leans over Navarro's shoulder.

"Of course," Navarro says importantly, sucking in his chest. He loves surprising his slaves. They never like his surprises, but that's kind of the point. Navarro only surprises his slaves when they misbehave. Which is exactly why he's here right now, dragging a stuttering Travis through the cold. Navarro's gloved hand goes to the hilt of the knife tucked in his pocket. It's clean, at least for the next twenty minutes.

"S-sir…is—is t-this "sur-surprise" be—because of—of—of yesterday?" Travis asks quietly, his voice small and nervous.

"Of course," Navarro says again. Oh, yesterday. Navarro has such a love-hate relationship with his slaves disobeying him. On one hand, he gets to punish them for their insubordination. On the other, they disobeyed him. Just like Travis did yesterday. Navarro had simply told him to go into the basement of his mother's estate with him. Travis had refused, even going so far to attempt to run away from Navarro! Of course, the basement is where his mother keeps her sex slaves and people who have yet to pay her back, and Navarro had been going down to beat up one of the said late-payers. It's one of Navarro's favorite things to do, as well as the only thing his mother thinks he's good for.

At last, Navarro peers down an alleyway and spots a little girl, with long hair and a ragged coat, walking toward them. He whirls back around, grabbing Travis's wrist tight enough to bruise. Travis murmurs in pain, but Navarro knows he's all talk. Surely by this point, Travis is used to how violent Navarro can be. Is that a bad thing? Absolutely not. Being violent is how you get places in this universe. Navarro is just smart enough and strong enough to understand that. Travis is a lot of things, but he is not strong nor smart.

"As I'm sure you know," Navarro begins, his voice quiet. "yesterday, you disobeyed my orders. So, I have to punish you. Here's what you're going to do. Do you see that girl coming down the alleyway right now? You're going to take this knife, attack her, rape her, and kill her."

Travis's face drains of what little color it had retained. He stares at Navarro as if expecting him to suddenly start laughing, yell "just kidding!" and throw confetti at his face. _Honestly!_ Navarro thinks. _How is it possible for someone to be that thick headed?_

"And…and i-if I re—refuse?" Travis asks quietly, probably trying to stall.

Navarro nearly laughs at Travis's attempt to get out of this. "Then I'll take this gun, put it to your head, and refuse to remove it until you do as I say." Navarro takes the loaded gun out of his other pocket and places it against Travis's forehead.

Travis swallows thickly. "O-okay."

Without removing the gun, Navarro shoves the knife into Travis's shaking hands. Slowly, Travis starts down the alleyway, Navarro following closely behind, the gun now shifted to be against Travis's hair. Suddenly, Travis whirls around. Navarro very nearly pulls the trigger. "P-please, s-sir," Travis begs in a whisper. "d-don't make me do-do-do this!"

"You made this bed, now you have to lie in it," Navarro says coldly.

Travis exhales shakily and stumbles forward a few steps as the girl down the alleyway calls out, "Who are you? Do you—do you have a knife?"

"Time's a ticking," Navarro warns under his breath.

Travis suddenly springs forward, raises the knife and presses it against the girl's throat. Navarro follows slowly. Once Travis has the girl pressed up against the wall of one of the buildings beside them, Navarro places the gun back to his head. "That's a good boy," he says, toying with the gun's trigger.

And Travis does exactly as Navarro told him to. What choice would he have, since Navarro has a gun pressed to his head? Oh, he loves having so much power over Travis. This is how the world should work. The strong should control the weak. The weak should act as the slaves of the strong. This is how the world should be ordered, with Navarro sitting on his throne at the top with Travis below him, as his slave.

"Please! Don't hurt me!" the girl cries. Navarro's smirk only grows. This is where he gets his high. Ohoho, he could get _addicted_ to this feeling.

Navarro shifts his grip on the gun, watching as Travis's shoulder tense at the movement. He loves leaving people in suspense. He loves following Travis around with a gun to his head. Travis knows that Navarro could pull the trigger at any moment, and that is the feeling that Navarro so adores.

"Please! Sto—stop!" the girl continues to beg and beg and beg, but of course, Travis can't stop until the deed is done. If he does…well, _bang_!There'll be a bullet in his head!

That's when Navarro notices the figure at the other end of the alleyway. He's pretty sure it's a girl, probably around his age judging by her height. Navarro smirks and plays with the trigger on his gun. _Come on, girl, come play hero. You'll end up just as dead as Travis's friend here. _

But the girl at the end of the alleyway doesn't play hero. She starts to run, charging down the ice with surprising agility. Navarro stares at the spot she had been standing and shrugs. Oh well. It would have been so much more fun if she had come to play hero…then Navarro would have gotten the chance to kill her. Pity.

Even Navarro has to admit that he's getting a little bit cold. They're more shielded from the biting wind in the alley than they were out on the street, though. And Navarro has gloves and a hat. All Travis has is a threadbare coat and pants. _He must be freezing!_ Navarro thinks. _Just more incentive to do the job now. But his cell is pretty damn cold too. But it's his funeral._

Suddenly, Travis snatches the knife from the ground, raises it in the air, and slits the struggling girl's throat. Travis stumbles to his feet and collapses in the snow a few feet away.

Navarro pays him no attention. Instead he watches, mesmerized, as the girl chokes on her own blood. Her eyes plead with Navarro to do something, to save her, to end her suffering. Navarro stands up, grabs the gun, and places it back to Travis's head. "Wonderful job," Navarro hisses. "Absolutely wonderful. Now put your pants back on, we're going home."

He grabs Travis's wrist tightly again and starts off toward home, leaving the girl's bloodied girl sitting there with its eyes wide open.

When they arrive at the Lune estate, a place full of extorted money, slaves, and drugs, Navarro quickly drags a shaking and mumbling Travis down the stairs and into the basement. The various cells that were erected in the basement before shortly after Navarro was born stare at them as they pass. Most of the prisoners and slaves inside are asleep, but Navarro notices that one of the cells is empty. It appears that his mother has taken another one of the late-payers to bed again.

These cells were built by the same people that now inhabit them. Or, well, most of the slaves and prisoners that built the cells are long dead now, either executed, beaten to death, or just died of some sort of sickness. They are prisoners after all! Navarro and his mother have no obligation to treat them well.

Navarro drops Travis off at his cell, making sure to lock the door. He watches Travis collapse in the darkness for thirty or so seconds, listening to Travis's nonsensical mumblings. _He'll be sure not to disobey me again_, Navarro thinks triumphantly. _This'll guarantee his obedience, at least for another few months or so._

He turns around and stalks back through the darkened cells. Some of the prisoners are starting to wake up, but Navarro pays them no second thought. He makes his way up the stairs and toward his bedroom, where he hops in the shower to make sure all of the grime is off of his skin. Once he gets out, he twirls around the bloodstained knife and sets his gun on his nightstand. It's nearly two a.m., but Navarro really couldn't care for the hour.

He thinks of Travis, alone in his cell. He thinks of his mother, in bed with some late-payer. Oh, how it feels good to be a Lune, even if his mother doesn't want him. Oh, how it feels good to be on top.

_Afandina Hariri, 17_

"_No one can hurt you if you just bottle up your emotions."_

_(Two years before the Reapings)_

He lost.

Oh, fuck, he lost.

He lost the round, the whole game, and a fuck ton of money in the process.

Afandina Hariri doesn't just _lose_! He always wins, he _always wins_. He's never lost a bet before, never been dealt a bad hand! He prides himself on always playing his cards right, on always being ten steps ahead, on always _winning_. He just rakes in more and more money and never loses a single cap. This wasn't supposed to happen! This _doesn't_ happen! He—he—he can't allow this to happen! He can't lose, he can't lose, he can't lose.

But he did. Afandina Hariri lost a game. He played his cards wrong, and now he's shoveling out the thousands of caps he bet on his cards. Wesley Ryker smirks at him from across the table as Afandina pushes the last of the caps toward him. "There, are you happy now?" Afandina growls.

"Extremely," Wesley says, peering over his stacks of bills and coins.

"Whatever," Afandina says. "I know you cheated. I don't know how, but…you know what? Oh, I don't care." But he does care. He cares a lot but he doesn't really know how to deal with it. He's not used to losing. He's used to winning. He's used to taking money from Wesley Ryker, not giving it!

"Sure you don't," Wesley says carelessly, shrugging as he counts his new money.

Afandina growls at him. He makes to get up, but Wesley snags his sleeve. "Ah-ah, Hariri—remember, you still owe me…ten thousand or so caps. Got that in your pocket?"

"I'll pay you later," Afandina snarls.

"You'd better," Wesley says in a low voice. "You know what happens to people who don't pay me back."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Afandina stands up with a flourish, shoving his chair back so hard it falls over with a _thunk_. He storms out of the casino, to the surprise of no one. Anyone who has played Afandina Hariri knows that he is good. They know he doesn't lose for nothing.

So he heads home, anger boiling through his veins. All of this is fucking stupid, absol-fucking-lutely stupid. He had that game in the bag, he knows he did! Yet somehow he lost! He fucking lost. He fucking lost, and he lost a fuck ton of money in doing so. He can't imagine that his parents will be pleased, but who gives a single flying fuck? Certainly not Afandina. He couldn't care less about the amount of caps he doled out to Wesley Ryker. No, he only cares because he lost the game. His cards were fucked, he was fucked, and he's absolutely certain that Wesley Ryker found some way to cheat. It's the only way to explain him losing a game of cards, no matter what game. Go fish? He wins. Crazy eight? He wins. Solitaire? He wins. Gin rummy, pinochle, poker, Texas hold 'em, anything! He wins! He always fucking wins!

He stomps his way up the stairs and into the house. It's a large house, extremely luxurious by any other person in District 10's standards. But to Afandina, it's a house. It's a nice house, but it's a house. Sure, thousands of people would kill to live where he lives with the amount of money at their disposal as he has, but it's not Afandina gives a fuck. He stopped giving a fuck a long, long time ago.

"Where have you been?" his father asks from the landing on the second floor. "It's past midnight!"

"Where I am every Saturday," Afandina says, rolling his eyes.

"At this hour! I thought we told you to be home by eleven. It's far past eleven o'clock, young man!"

Afandina rolls his eyes again and turns around. He makes for the door, planning to leave the house and find a different casino to try his hand at.

"Don't you dare open that door," his father says in a deathly calm voice. Afandina can hear his footsteps coming down the stairs, and internally groans. Why can't his father just leave him alone? Why does he suddenly care so much about what time Afandina gets home, or what he spends his evenings doing? "You're staying right here, young man."

"Why do you give a fuck?" Afandina growls, turning around to face his father. "Can't you just leave me alone to do what I want?"

"I give a fuck because you're my _son_!" his father shouts. "And personally, I don't want to have raised a spoilt, arrogant, rude gambler-asshole!"

"Oh, so you're just realizing now that maybe your parenting techniques aren't perfect?" Afandina yells, trying to ignore the aching in the pride territory from his father's remarks. _Spoilt, arrogant, asshole. _But Afandina does. Not. Care. So what if his father thinks he's an asshole? So what if his father wishes he wasn't his son? Afandina doesn't care! He doesn't care about anything!

"You know what, young man? I have had enough of you going out every night and throwing my hard-earned money away! Enough is enough! Something is going to give, son, and you aren't going to like it," his father continues angrily.

"It's a little late to fix your child," Afandina snarks. "After all, I'm fifteen-years-old. Not that I'd expect you to know; you hardly pay enough attention to know my FUCKING NAME IS!"

"ENOUGH!" his father screams. "Enough. I'm going to go organize something, and you are going to go to your room, and you aren't going to leave until I come for you."

"I'm not a toddler," Afandina growls.

"You're still my child," his father says, his voice flat.

"Go fuck yourself," Afandina says in a low voice. "I don't have to listen to a single, solitary word I say."

His father simply grabs the door, walks out of the house, and slams it behind him.

…

_(Seven Months Before the Reaping)_

_Oh, god, he's so hot, _Afandina thinks, watching as Kyle searches for something-or-another across the barn. It's not exactly the best situation to be ogling someone—what with the various animals loudly complaining about existence nearby and Afandina's general imprisonment on the Beaux farm—but it's better than nothing. And Kyle is someone to look at. Beautiful, clear tan skin. Dark brown hair with natural highlights that swoops across his face. Eyes that are somewhere between amber, brown and green. A tall, slender figure that still manages to have muscles—a product of all of the farm work—well, just being able to look at Kyle makes all of this almost worth it.

Almost.

Over a year Afandina has spent here on the Beaux farm—or, as he likes to call it, literal hell—working from sunup to sundown. Feeding the animals, milking the cows, collecting the chickens' eggs, herding the sheep. Doing all sorts of boring, demeaning farm work. Afandina Hariri is far, _far_ above herding disgusting sheep and putting his own hands upon a cow's udder.

And his father is so delusional to think that all of this is suddenly going to make him a good parent. As if suddenly, Afandina will have an epiphany and everything will turn out okay. He'll stop having negative traits at all—although Afandina isn't really sure what negative traits he possesses—and be a wonderful ray of sunshine who feeds the stray dogs on the way to work and gives all of the homeless orphans food at he passes. It's completely ridiculous to think that everything could just work out after over a year or so of hard farm work.

It doesn't make sense. It doesn't work. That's just not what happens.

"Afandina? Are you okay?"

Kyle's silky voice snaps Afandina out of his trance. "Oh—uh, yep, I'm good."

"You've been staring at me for the past five minutes," Kyle says flatly.

"Oh," Afandina says, unsure of what else he could say.

"I mean, I know I'm good looking and all but I didn't know that you swung that way," Kyle comments in that beautiful silky voice.

_God, he's hot_, Afandina thinks.

"Pretty sure you did," Afandina responds. "But I just like to look."

"I get that," Kyle agrees, nodding, but it doesn't take a genius—which Afandina indisputably is—to see the slight hurt in Kyle's face. His posture slumps just the slightest bit and his eyes dull a little.

"I! Uh, I have to, uh, have to go walk the dogs!" Afandina exclaims suddenly, hurrying out of the barn. He doesn't look back, afraid to see Kyle's expression. Instead, he rushes toward the farmhouse and grabs the dogs' leashes. He calls out the names of the dogs, asking them excitedly if they'd like to go for a walk.

As the dogs pull him out of the farmhouse, he breaths out heavily. He doesn't get what he's feeling. Sure, he's looked at many a boy before—even a few girls, way back when—but Kyle feels, somehow…different? It's a feeling that Afandina is unfamiliar with, and if he's being entirely honest, is kind of afraid of. What does it mean? What is he feeling?

One of the dogs starts barking at a random passerby. "Shut up," Afandina hisses at the dog as the other one joins in on the barking. "Shut up!" Afandina repeats. _Stupid dogs_, he thinks.

Afandina has to admit, what he feels toward Kyle is kind of terrifying. It's nothing he's ever felt before. He doesn't even know what to call it. Lust? Physical attraction? Some other synonym for wanting to fuck Kyle? That's all it is, surely. What else would it be? Besides, all he ever does is stare at Kyle, as if every time he sees Kyle, he has to recommit every inch of him to memory. He doesn't like listening to him _talk_. He doesn't like watching him _work_. He doesn't like anything about Kyle that isn't his face or his body…

Honestly, he's kind of scared of Kyle, by this point. It's clear that Kyle wants to fuck him too, but it just doesn't make sense. He doesn't need Kyle. He doesn't need anybody. He's Afandina fucking Hariri! He's a loner, he doesn't like people, he doesn't like anyone except himself. He doesn't like Kyle Beaux. All he wants is to fuck him senseless. Surely. That's what he wants.

It just doesn't make sense. Afandina isn't used to things not making sense. He prides himself on being smart, on always understanding things, but it just doesn't compute. Nothing computes anymore. Everything stopped making sense when his father sent away to live in literal hell. Afandina is just unsure of how to start understanding things again.

**A/N: I have returned from the dead! I'm sorry for the two or so weeks between these updates. I was in Chicago and then I wasn't and I didn't want to write and suddenly it's Christmas! Where did December go?**

**Anyways, Merry Christmas to those who celebrate. I wrote ninety percent of this chapter while my aunt and cousins were breathing down my neck, asking me questions about what I was writing, and I don't like telling my extended family that I'm currently writing Hunger Games fanfiction. My cousins are extremely judgmental, for one thing. For another, it's just something that should stay personal. **

**1\. Thoughts on Scoria?**

**2\. Thoughts on Navarro?**

**3\. Thoughts on Afandina?**

**4\. Which of these three is your favorite?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: which one of these three would make the best Victor?**

**Next up, for our second-to-last intro, we have Shad, Darwin and Ottilie. **

**-Amanda**


	13. Something That's Gonna Outlive Me

_Ottilie Blackwell, 15_

"_I'm not doing it because you told me to."_

_(One Month Before the Reapings)_

If there is one thing Ottilie has wanted her whole life, it's to make history.

All she has ever wanted to do is something substantial. One day, Ottilie _is_ going to die. It doesn't bother her, never has and never will. But what does bother her is dying without making her mark. She needs something for people to remember her by. The last thing she wants is to die and immediately be forgotten as a nobody, a nonentity, just another headstone in the Graveyard of Great Sacrifice.

And what better way is there than to win the Hunger Games?

Not only that, but to become the youngest chosen volunteer in District 4 history to make a decisive Victory.

Thus, Ottilie has to make some sacrifices. There are only so many ways for a girl of fifteen—barely, just barely fifteen—to convince the trainers of District 4 to choose her as the volunteer. Especially when she's going up against someone like Matira Kendari. It's not easy. But Ottilie has always enjoyed challenges.

If it means she has to sacrifice some sleep and general bodily health to reach her goal, then so be it.

So, yeah, it's one a.m. and the training center is closed. Ottilie is _supposed_ to be in her dorm—key word being "supposed". Technically, they don't lock the doors in the dormitories, which makes sneaking out insanely easy. Even though most of the time when a trainee sneaks out, it's to go fuck someone or commit petty crimes.

Ottilie is certainly not someone to commit petty crimes or go fuck someone in the bushes. She's someone to steal the keys from Aran, one of the head trainers at Faustus, sneak out of her dorm room at midnight, and spend the rest of the night beating punching bags to pieces. At least she remembered to bring the tape this time.

It's become something like routine ever since Ottilie got ahold of Aran's keys. She ninety-point-nine-percent certain that Aran knows she has his keys but he doesn't do anything about it. He probably wouldn't care if Matira Kendari was doing the same thing.

Ottilie likes to think that her midnight training sessions propel her closer to her goal. It just shows her dedication to her goals. It just proves that she is the best option for the job.

By the time Ottilie leaves the training center, her knuckles have started to bleed through the tape and the sun is peeking over the ocean in the distance. Just as she turns the key in the lock, the morning alarm sounds. She glances up at one of the clocks on the wall on her way to the cafeteria, noting that it's six a.m. It's funny to think that most of the trainees wake up in the morning wishing for more time to sleep, while Ottilie has been up for hours. In fact, it's been nearly thirty-six hours since Ottilie last slept, and that was only because Audrina demanded she lay down. It was a rare time when Ottilie didn't immediately refuse to do whatever Audrina told her to do; maybe it was because she was, deep down, kind of tired.

She sweeps into the cafeteria, finding it nearly empty. The trainees that don't live in the dormitories are slowly trickling in, but most of the live-in kids don't show up for a while. Ottilie being one of the exceptions, obviously. While everyone else is waking up and getting ready, Ottilie never usually went to sleep in the first place.

It's not like she really eats in the cafeteria. She doesn't eat a lot in general. It's nothing but a huge waste of time, in the same vein as sleep. She's got better things to do than sit in the cafeteria and eat whatever food they provide to the trainees. She's got a life to live, things to do, weapons to master, people to meet, goals to be reached. She's got a Hunger Games to win, after all.

The only reason to shows up to the cafeteria every morning is to be present for announcements. There aren't announcements every day, but when there is one, it's important. Ninety percent of the time, it's about the chosen volunteers, and those competitions are coming up soon…

"Ottilie, can I speak to you in my office for a moment?"

Ottilie looks up, surprised at being addressed. She finds herself sitting across from Aran, the same guy she stole the keys to the training center from. "Um…yes. Sure."

She carefully gets up, looking at Aran's face and trying to read what this conversation is going to be about. She gets the feeling it's not going to be a happy one. Maybe he found out she stole his keys? She was under the impression he knew she had his keys, though. Maybe it's something else?

They pass several trainees as they walk through the open-air halls of Faustus. Ottilie glares daggers at anyone brave enough to meet her eyes. After a few minutes, they arrive at Aran's office. As the door closes behind her, Ottilie thinks of the keys back in her back pocket. Maybe Audrina ratted her out. If she did, well, Ottilie will, one way or another, find out about it. And Audrina will pay.

"Ottilie, please take a seat," Aran says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. His eyes are dark and stormy, which does not make Ottilie feel extremely confident about this meeting.

Ottilie cautiously slides into the seat, looking skeptically at Aran as if he's about to pull out a knife and stab her in the neck. "What do you want?"

"Ottilie, please," Aran says tiredly, holding up on his hands. "I'm going to level with you—I'm worrying about you, Ottilie."

It's certainly not what Ottilie expected. She expected…well, she's not exactly sure what she expected. "I don't need someone worrying about me. I'm just fine on my own, thank you very much."

Aran bites his lip and looks down at his desk. "See, that's the problem. I know you have my keys and have been using the training center in the middle of the night, and while I admire your dedication…you need to care about yourself for once."

Ottilie gapes at him. "Care about myself? I am! I'm caring about myself by making myself stronger! I'm caring about myself by ensuring I get this spot _and_ that I win!"

"That's not what I mean," Aran says. "In doing those things, you are neglecting to eat, sleep, and do anything a normal human being needs to function properly."

"So what?" Ottilie demands. "I'm training. I'm improving—"

"—and you're starving yourself in the process," Aran interrupts. "Ottilie, training ability is not the only thing we take into consideration when choosing our volunteers. We look for smart, accountable trainees who understand their boundaries. At the moment, you aren't displaying any of those qualities. So, I'm going to have to ask for my keys back."

Ottilie is on her feet in an instant. "I _will_ get that volunteer spot, even if it's the last thing I ever do. You don't understand how much this means to me—"

"The same amount it means to everyone else," Aran answers. "Ottilie, I know you've got this hang up about legacy but you have to understand that sometimes it's not about making history. Every one of our trainees knows well and clear that entering the Games is potential suicide. If you go in at fifteen, that's what it probably will be."

"I'll prove you wrong," Ottilie swears. "I'll show you that I can get that spot at fifteen, and that I can win!"

"You have to keep in mind that there are many talented trainees in their last year of eligibility. Think of Matira Kendari." Ottilie can tell that Aran is getting tired of this conversation, that he thinks it's getting nowhere. And maybe it is. But Ottilie isn't going to back down. She's not going to be the first person to concede. "I know this means a lot to you, Ottilie. But there's nothing stopping you from waiting another year or two, in order to polish your skills and—"

"No one will care about me then!" Ottilie shouts, clenching fists at her sides. "You don't get it, do you? I _have_ to be the first fifteen-year-old volunteer to win! This has been my goal since I was a toddler and I'll be damned if I don't get it! If I don't volunteer at fifteen, then no one will care. I'll just be another Faustus trainee, no one deserving of attention or praise or sponsors. But if I volunteer at fifteen, people will talk. I'll be someone to pay attention to, because people will admire my bravery and my talent when I tell them I'm the chosen volunteer. _That's_ why I have to get this spot, and I have to get it now."

"While I admire your confidence and your dedication, I really would advise against this—" Aran starts, but Ottilie starts talking over him.

"You know what? You can have your keys back." She angrily slams the key ring onto the desk. "I don't them. I don't need anything to prove that I can be the chosen volunteer, and the Victor, at fifteen. Now thank you for this _insightful_ meeting, but if you'll excuse me, I have training to do."

With that, Ottilie sweeps from Aran's office, slamming the door behind her and leaving Aran standing shell-shocked inside.

_Shad Marcum, 18_

"_I'm better than you'll ever be."_

_(Four Years before the Reapings)_

Well, he lost again. It's not the first time Shad has lost a sparring match, but damn, it's going to be the last. He _hates _losing. The feeling makes his blood boil—he is supposed to be _perfect_. That's all he's ever been. He's been the best of the best, the cream of the crop, the only one in this entire Panem-forsaken academy that is actually going to win the Hunger Games. Okay, yeah, there's still four years before he's even going to _think _about entering the Games, but the problem still stands. And, okay, sure, he's only been training for eleven months, but soon it'll be a year, and he'll have nothing to show from it! If he keeps losing…

It's times like these that Shad feels compelled to show off his superiority somehow. If he can't beat other trainees in sparring matches, then he'll have to prove his worth in another way.

And what's the best way to make Shad feel good about himself? Why, by belittling other people.

And it's so easy when it comes to Troy Ortun. The boy is a walking disaster, practically tailor made to be picked on. You take one look at him and you can pick out seven things to tease about him. It's so _easy_. It's an honest-to-Panem miracle that Troy hasn't invested in some plastic surgery or something by this point.

"Hey, hey Troy," Shad says as he follows Troy toward the cafeteria. "Didn't look like you were trying too hard out there, Troy. Maybe you should try harder, _Troy_."

Troy splutters out something that sounds similar to "I am trying".

Shad just laughs. "Maybe you should learn how to talk properly first, _Troy_." He sticks out his foot, landing it right into Troy's path, which the boy promptly trips over. It only makes Shad laugh harder. "Actually, you should probably focus on being able to _walk_, like a _normal human being_ first."

Other kids in the hallway have started laughing as well, which makes Shad's smirk grow. It's clear to see just how much better he is than everyone else. So what if he can't win a sparring match against one of the best trainees in the Academy? He's still got time. He's got four years before he has to present himself for volunteer consideration. And this is going to be the last time he ever loses a sparring match. He just can't handle the feeling of being lesser, of not being good enough. He _is_ good enough, damnit! He's _better_ than good enough! He's the _best_!

"Maybe you should just cut your losses and go home now, hmm?" Shad suggests, leaning over sideways so he's right in Troy's face. "Might make things easier on ya, huh?"

"Well…" Troy stammers. "Well…maybe it's _you_ who—who should go—go home!"

Maybe if it was worded better, it might have made Shad angry. After all, no one injures Shad's pride without some sort of repercussion. But when it comes to Troy…well, it's honestly just more hilarious. "Finally growing a spine, are you? Sure took you long enough!"

Troy visibly swallows. "W-well…I did it before…before you!"

That makes Shad mad. That makes his blood start boiling again, because he'll be damned if he lets Troy Ortun do something he hasn't! Shad is the best at everything, especially when compared to Troy, and he can't let anyone have the upper hand but himself.

So, Shad does the only logical thing in this situation:

He reels back his fist and punches Troy square in the nose.

Troy goes stumbling backwards, his hands coming up to protect his face as blood starts to trickle from his left nostril. He crumples against the wall, sliding toward the floor and looking up at Shad with fear in his eyes.

It's a feeling Shad could get addicted to. Troy knows his place. The other trainees know their place—on the sidelines, doing nothing but fueling Shad's superiority. Shad, of course, has always known where he belongs: on top.

The other trainees continue laughing as Troy bolts to his feet and shoves his way down the hallway. Shad is ninety-nine percent sure there were tears on Troy's cheeks, to top it all off.

Shad heads down the hallway toward the cafeteria, his failure in the earlier sparring match forgotten by not only himself, but all of the other trainees as well. After all, they know that Shad is king.

…

_(Three Months Before the Reapings)_

Well, he won again. It's been a long, long time since he lost, ever since he started really taking this stuff seriously. And ohoho does it feel good to win. He wins a lot, yeah, but that doesn't stop him getting a high every single time it happens. After all, it's just another reminder of Shad's place. He's on top, and it's his job to remind everyone as often as possible.

As the kid he was sparring goes off to the medics to get treated for whatever cuts or bruises Shad left on him, Shad himself heads over to the leaderboards. Whoever is at the top is usually chosen as the volunteer, and the second places are the reserves.

Shad compulsively checks the list. Every day, more than once, he goes to the leaderboard, just to make sure he's still on top. Not once in three and a half years has he been bumped from the top spot. If he ever were to be shoved from his well-deserved place on top, he would hunt down whoever took the glory from him and…well, he's not exactly sure what he'd do, but it wouldn't be good.

When he reaches the leaderboard, which sits just outside the main training center, he starts at the bottom and goes up. It's a secret fear of his to just walk up to the board one day and find himself in last place. Of course, then he'll have to find a way to shoulder his way back to the top. He is the best, after all. And anyone who says other wise can take his fist to their face.

His eyes dimly skim over each name, reading each daily placement without really processing it. He notices the names of his friends, Davy and Hurley, in the same place they usually are. Even three months before the Games, the placements generally don't move around much. He may as well already be the chosen volunteer. Honestly, it's unlikely that there is anyone in all of Court that doesn't know for certain that Shad is the volunteer, and has been for years now.

First, he checks the girls. Silvera Prowess is still in first place, and Nephrite de Sapphiro is still in second. Just like it was yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that…it hasn't changed for months. Those two have been locked in place for ages, and Shad doubts either of them will be moving anytime soon.

Still, he doesn't really mind going into the Games with Silvera. She's not…ideal, per say, but she's doable. He'd much rather go in with Silvera or Nephrite than Chalice Jamil, Raediance Vance, or Panem forbid Calista Abbey.

After he makes sure that Silvera and Nephrite are nestled safely in their top spots, he moves over to the boys.

He breathes out a breath he didn't know he was holding when he sees that he's still in first. Below him is Kyanite Alexandria, like normal. Shad isn't worried by Kyanite. He's beat him hundreds, maybe_ thousands_ of times in sparring matches. He knows that Kyanite is no competition for him, and could never hold his own in the Hunger Games.

Really, no one else in Court is any competition for Shad, and they all know it. He could best any of them any day, including both Nephrite and Silvera. That's why he's going to win the Hunger Games. No matter who goes into that arena with him will be no match for Shad Marcum.

Shad makes his way back into the main training center and catches sight of Troy sparring with Kyanite in the corner. _Oh, this'll be good_, he thinks as he makes his way over to them. He feels the eyes of the other trainees on him as he walks. It's another reminder of his place on top. But, for good measure, he glares at a pair of girls that were staring. He has to remind everyone, not only of his own place, but theirs as well. They can't have anyone around here getting a big head, now can they?

As he approaches Kyanite and Troy, he notices that the latter is shaking slightly. _Just imagine how terrified Troy would be to spar with _me_!_

Maybe someone else would admire Troy for fighting despite being afraid. But Shad doesn't admire anyone but himself, and Troy definitely is not worthy of _anyone's_ admiration. It's a surprise to see him show up for breakfast every morning.

It only takes Kyanite a few moments to best Troy. Of course, Shad could have done it faster. He barely would have had to raise a finger in order to knock Troy down. The kid's practically a twig with legs.

Shad shakes his head as he watches Kyanite good-naturedly help Troy to his feet. _Pathetic_, he thinks. _Troy doesn't deserve anyone's help. Especially not the guy in _second fucking place_ in _all of Court Academy_. Kyanite sure needs to let go being a "nice guy"._

You'd think that after so many years of training, Kyanite would have learned that. Shad sure has.

_Darwin Abner, 15_

"_Stand up, push on, or face the assholes who knocked you down. If you don't, you'll always stay down."_

_(One Year before the Reapings)_

Darwin has a…reputation, of sorts. Not as being the "bad boy" or the "heartbreaker" or the "popular kid". No, what people tend to think of Darwin Abner as is the "social-justice warrior". He's always there, always ready to stand up for what he believes in, no matter how many words he has to use, how many insults he has to dole out, no matter how many times he gets punched or sent to detention. He never backs down. He stands up for he believes him, no matter the situation. He is known as someone who will fight anyone under any circumstance if you insult him, his friends, his family, his grades, his friends' grades, his family's grades, his district, his house, his friends' houses…the list could go on. He'll fight anyone over anything, and you can bet he's going to get the last word in. He'll use so many words it'll make your head spin, because Darwin loves his words. He'll never falter, because he always knows what he is going to say, and you can bet it's not going to stroke your ego.

Of course, it leads to some…unforeseen complications. Basically, it leads to Darwin sitting in the principal's office with an ice-pack over his new black-eye, receiving yet another stern talking-to by Mr. Ott. He's just lucky that his glasses avoided being broken. His family doesn't have the money to pay for a new pair.

"Mr. Abner, I'm afraid that by this point, detention is doing nothing," Mr. Ott says, folding his hands in front of his chest. "And that means we're going to have to suspend you for two weeks. We'll call your parents to let them know—"

"Personally, sir, I don't think I should be suspended," Darwin says cordially. He can't deny that the prospect of getting suspended is slightly scary, but he powers on despite any of his worries. "First of all, I was only standing up for Nikola, whom, I might remind you, is an orphan. Second of all, I didn't throw the first punch. I didn't even throw any back. I believe that any argument that is started, whether it be my fault or my opponent's, can be resolved peacefully. The only reason any of us are in this mess is because Acer Stephenson can't keep his hands to himself and play nice. Granted, I was the one who confronted Mr. Stephenson and started the argument, but if he hadn't picked on Nikola, I would have had no reason to argue with him. Therefore, if anyone should be getting suspended, it should be Acer Stephenson, not me. I'll gladly take another detention period but I feel that suspending me is going a bit far. Honestly, I don't think I've done anything wrong. I'm the one in the room who was socked in the face, and all I did was stand up for one of my friends. I don't think that we should punish people for standing up for themselves and those around them, especially seeing as Mr. Stephenson is the one who is in the wrong here." Darwin crosses his arms and locks eyes with Mr. Ott. "So, in conclusion, I should not be suspended for standing up for what I believe in."

For a long moment, Mr. Ott is silent. At last he says, "While I acknowledge that Acer may have been the first to turn the argument physical, you are also in the wrong, Darwin. It would be much easier on everyone if you had simply told a teacher about Acer's teasing habits rather than taking matters into your own hands."

"I'm forced to take matters into my own hands because no one else will do anything. Teachers will see it happen, yet they'll still do absolutely nothing to stop it. I've even told my teachers before, and they continue to sit there on the sidelines and do nothing," Darwin says, fighting to keep his voice calm and level. That is one part of arguing that Darwin can really pride himself in; no matter how angry his opponent gets, Darwin will always remain calm, diplomatic and even. He will always have a comeback, no matter how angry he is.

"Be that as it may, you are still going to be suspended," Mr. Ott says.

Darwin clenches his fists underneath the table, taking extra care to make sure that his anger isn't visible to Mr. Ott. The last thing he needs is for the man to see just how furious this whole ordeal has made him…he chews on his lip for a few moments before he raises his head and says, "Sir, I understand that punishment is necessary—" _No matter how little sense it makes. _"—but I don't suppose there's any way to…shorten my sentence, is there? It will take me forever to catch up on all of that school work and—"

"Mr. Abner," Mr. Ott says sternly. "You made this bed, now lie in it. I can't "shorten your sentence", as you say. I understand it will take time and effort to catch up, but that is the point of suspension. It is, after all, a punishment."

"Sir," Darwin tries again, but Mr. Ott interrupts him.

"You're a good kid, Darwin," he says. "You've got a good head on your shoulders, if only you keep it on straight. I understand your frustrations, but you have to remember there are people who take care of these things for a job."

Darwin opens his mouth to protest, but Mr. Ott powers on over top of him. "What I'm trying to say is that you could go really far in life, Darwin, but only if you keep your tongue in check, your head down, and follow the rules."

"But sir—" Keep his tongue in check? Keep his _head down_? _Follow the rules_? Darwin follows the rules, he keeps his head down, until someone gives him a reason to lift it. He stays in check until he has plausible cause to start an argument!

And, Mr. Ott is kidding himself if he thinks Darwin can go anywhere with all of the blemishes on his record. No one wants to hire someone who continuously got into fights during school to supervise a factory or a science lab.

"You can go now, Darwin. I'll have someone notify your parents of your suspension."

Darwin leaves the school quickly. He can practically feel everyone's eyes burning into the back of his head as he walks through the halls. They're all talking about him, about his black eye, about Acer Stephenson punching him square in the face, about Darwin's words. He says so many words, doesn't he? Too many words? Probably too many words. That's why everyone is looking at him. He said too many words.

But Darwin likes words. He uses so many words because he has so much to say. He'll keep talking until the day he dies, no matter how many people he scares off with his words.

District 3 is stark and gray as he stumbles through the streets, unsure of where he's going. He can't go home, that's for certain. He can just imagine the looks on his parents' faces, the "I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed"s, the possible ensuing argument. It's not that Darwin doesn't like a good argument, but that's the kind of argument he can't win.

So he does the only thing he can think of: he heads for the house of his friend Mack.

When he arrives, he knocks on the door. Mack answers after a moment.

"Hey," Darwin says, staring at the ground and trying to hide the shame on his face. "Can I crash on your couch?"

"Sure," Mack says, waving Darwin inside. "So, what happened? Get in a fight with your parents?"

"Sort of," Darwin says noncommittally. "It's kind of a fight that…well, hasn't happened yet."

"Well, you're welcome to stay as long as you want," Mack says. "My parents are away for a while, so it's just me here."

"Great," Darwin says, standing in the middle of the living room, feeling like a ghost who shouldn't be here. "Thanks for letting me stay here."

"Yeah," Mack says, flopping down on the couch. After a moment of staring oddly at Darwin, he says, "Did something happen at school that I missed?" Mack hasn't been in school for years, after dropping out to work in the factories.

"…no," Darwin says after a few seconds. "Why do you ask?"

"You're not using as many words as usual," Mack says, shrugging.

"I'm just…worried," Darwin says, perching on the edge of the one of the armchairs.

"Okay," Mack says slowly. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No," Darwin says immediately. That's not exactly his area of expertise. He's not the best with his emotions. "I'm good, really."

Honestly, he's extremely lucky to have Mack's house as a place to crash. It's always been an option if he needed it, but this is the first time he's ever had to cash it in. Besides, his parents will be pissed when he finally comes home. _Maybe it would just be better to stay at Mack's indefinitely_, Darwin thinks. It's strange to him that's for once, he's avoiding an argument.

**A/N: I have returned with our second-to-last intro chapter! I'm sure you can guess who our final three are, but in case you can't, it's Geo, Mercury and Larch.**

**1\. Thoughts on Ottilie?**

**2\. Thoughts on Shad?**

**3\. Thoughts on Darwin?**

**4\. Which one of them is your favorite?**

**Also: shamelessly advertising a new partial SYOT I started called Live. Die. Repeat. Check it out. Or don't. Do whatever you want. **

**I'll see you for our last intro! Man am I excited to be almost done with these!**

**-Amanda**


	14. Quiet

_Mercury Harrigan, 16_

"_I'm a grenade. At some point I'm going to blow up and I'd like to minimize the casualties, okay?"_

_(Two Years before the Reapings)_

_**TW for past mentions/descriptions of physical abuse**_

He used to love words.

Words were his best friend, the only way he could ever get his point across.

Now? Now, words are his worst enemy and his biggest fear. It makes sense from an outside standpoint; after years of being taught that speaking, making noises in general and anything that gives the idea that he's a real person would earn him a new mark, no one would expect him to be talkative.

Even now, when Marion and William are in jail, there are bruises on his arms and cuts on his face. His ribs ache with each movement he makes, forcing him to draw in short, clipped breaths. He has the hood of his jacket pulled up over his face in a vain attempt to obscure the red marks, as if no one in the Community Home knows where he came from. As if everyone in all of District 7 hasn't read the newspaper, the article with the blaring title. _Upstanding Harrigan Family Involved in Seven-Year-Long Abuse Scandal. _As if everyone didn't already know who he is and how defective that person is. As if no one_ knew_.

"Mercury, there's a woman here who would like to speak with you."

He slowly looks up to meet the eyes of Matron Bellamy, standing sternly on the other side of the table. "And take that hood off!" she commands, her hands on her hips.

Her voice reminds him too much of Marion Harrigan's, her dark eyes too void of emotion. It sends a surge of terror pouring through his veins as he carefully gets to his feet. His hands shakily come up to his face to remove his hood as he follows Bellamy out of mess hall, his eyes glancing nervously at the kids he passes. They aren't staring, but it feels like they are. It feels like they're staring at him, their eyes burning into his skin as they whisper behind their hands. He's not perfect, not like Marion and William always demanded he be, and it feels like no else can let it go.

For so many years, he had been held to an impossible standard. Marion and William always demanded perfection from him, and if he ever stepped out of line…well, usually, he would wake up on the floor with bruises on his chest and cracks in his ribs. Fists couldn't hurt him nearly as much as the thoughts that came with it. He was supposed to be perfect, and if he wasn't perfect, what was he? He doesn't remember ever being someone beyond striving for perfection. Everyone around him is so _different_, yet all he is is nothing but an empty shell of a human being, trained like a dog to answer commands no matter the consequences.

Bellamy's office looms down the hallway, which does not make him feel confident. What goes on in there is beyond him. Besides, he's only been here a week. He's never seen anybody who looks like they've been hit…but Marion and William always made exceptions for him…

Matron Bellamy pulls open the door to her office and ushers him inside. She closes the door, leaving him standing alone with a woman he's never seen before on the other side of the desk.

"Mercury, hi."

He keeps his head down, letting his hair fall onto his face, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"I'm Zela Weber." There's an emotion in her voice that he is entirely unfamiliar with. He doesn't know its name, if it even has a name, or if he's ever heard it before.

Again, he doesn't raise his head. He doesn't need "Zela Weber" to see the only-partially-healed marks on his face.

"Mercury? I'm looking into taking you in. Would you look at me?"

His head snaps up, his eyes going wide as he frantically searches for Zela's eyes. "I-I-I—" the words start stumbling out of his mouth without his permission and he quickly clamps his hand under his chin, trying to hold it closed. He looks down again, staring at his shoes like they are the most interesting things in the world. He can't talk. He can't talk. He isn't allowed to make a sound or else Marion will get the knife and there will be blood on his hands and—

He can feel Zela's eyes from across the office, burning into the top of his head. "Mercury? Are you alright?"

With a sharp nod of his head, he carefully raises his head again, trying to keep his eyes locked on Zela's.

"As I was saying," Zela continues slowly, her eyes darting around as if she is trying to commit his face to memory. "I'm hoping to take you in. I've taken in several cases from the Community Home that have been deemed unfixable before, and Matron Bellamy has asked for me specifically to work with you."

It sounds fine and dandy, but all he can hear is that he's too messed up for anyone else to take care of. That he's so imperfect that no one would ever have interest in even speaking to him that Bellamy has to ask for someone specifically to get him out of the Community Home. He's heard enough kids talking in the past week to know that kids don't just get taken out of the Community Home. Ninety-nine percent of them stay there until they turn eighteen and are kicked out.

Maybe that's why people tend to look at him like he's a delicate piece of glass. They treat him like he's fragile, something easily breakable. And maybe he is. Or maybe he's already broken.

…

_(One Year before the Reapings)_

"Merc."

He doesn't look up from his book, instead simply turning the page and continuing to skim through the words.

"Mercury."

Still, he doesn't raise his head. He's got a test in the morning that's far more important than whatever Zumi has to tell him.

"Mercury!" Zumi drapes herself across his back, grabbing his textbook and holding it high above his head.

"Hm?" he hums, making a mad grab for the textbook.

Zumi hops to her feet, slams the book shut, and holds it tight to her chest. "Now that I have your attention, I have come with important news. I'm bored, and I'm keeping this." With that, she turns on her heel and dashes toward the stairs, prompting him to get up and follow her.

"Zu…" he murmurs, taking the steps two at a time. People have said that it makes no sense when he talks in quiet, clipped half-sentences while moving fast. They say it's weird for him to pound up the stairs, yet make absolutely no sound with each footfall.

But, no one has ever accused him of making sense.

And that is infuriating. Zumi makes sense. Zela makes sense. The others that Zela have taken in make sense. Yet he doesn't. He's begun to come to terms with it but…

He catches up to Zumi as she runs into her bedroom. She tries to slam the door but he sticks out his foot and shoves his way inside. "…book," he mumbles after a moment, making another desperate grab for his textbook. "Zu."

"Okay, okay," Zumi says, starting to hand the book back to him. Suddenly, she raises her arm and tosses it backwards onto her bed.

He flinches as he leans around her and throws himself onto her bed. He wraps his arm around the textbook.

Zumi starts laughing as he stands up. "You've been studying for hours, though," Zumi says. "I know it's important but, dude, chill. Let's do something. Maybe we can get Alton and Blaise to join us."

See, "chilling" is not something he is very good at. He needs to study so that he can get good grades and do something with his life. He needs to focus on school so he can go somewhere. Maybe if he studies hard enough he can go to university in District 3 and he'll be able to start over and no one will know who he is in District 3 so they'll have no reason to look at him like he might explode if touched wrong and—

He wants a new beginning. It's not that Zela's house is bad or anything, even if Zumi gets a little bit annoying, but it doesn't change his past. It doesn't change that everyone knows who he is and what happened to him. He wants to go somewhere where no one knows his name, where no one recognizes his face, and he can just start over.

_Geo Stryker, 15_

"_If I win this, I promise that I will repay my parents for everything they've done for me. If I die, I just want them to know that I'm sorry I couldn't help them."_

_(Three Years before the Reapings)_

It never ceases to amaze Geo that the Hob has survived for so long. The place is practically falling to pieces, which makes it hell during the winter, but in the summer, it's perfect. Honestly, it's one of Geo's favorite spots when his parents are at work. It has this sense of community that you can't get anywhere else in District 12. Everybody knows everybody, and everybody wants to extend a helping hand if they can.

Unfortunately, as of late, Geo has usually been on the receiving end of those helping hands. He and his parents have never had issues taking what they can if it's offered—as long as whoever is offering it doesn't need it more—but it's starting to feel ridiculous.

See, ever since the coal miners' pay was cut in half, a lot of people have been struggling to get by, even more so than usual. Everybody has been in need, it seems, and no one else has anything to give. If anything, it's just made those who sell and buy at the Hob closer.

Geo doesn't come often, especially in recent months. His family just doesn't have the money to buy whatever they want. It's not like they've ever had copious amounts of caps to throw around whenever they want, but everything has become extremely tight. It's a weight that rests on Geo's chest as he walks through the rows of market stalls in search of Arick. In fact, it never really leaves his chest; it has made a home there, mingling with anything else that Geo finds himself stressing over.

At last he spots Arick sitting on the ground by a stall that sells soup. Geo takes a deep breath, lifts his head, and walks over to Arick. "Hey!" he greets, a lopsided grin that feels misplaced in his current situation sliding onto his face. "How's it going?"

"Good," Arick answers, hopping to his feet. "You?"

"I'm good too," responds Geo as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Whatchu up to?"

Talking to Arick always demands that Geo be high-energy. He's not a bad actor, so it's not really difficult, even with this weight sitting on his chest. It feels like a metal band that slowly closes around his lungs, cutting off his air supply and making his head spin. But he can ignore it; he's been ignoring those kinds of feelings for years.

"Just eatin' some soup," Arick says, lifting his half-empty cup of soup. "It tastes better than the stuff we have at home, you know?"

Arick is one of the few people in Geo's life that can feasibly give him handouts without digging himself into a hole. Seeing as he comes from the merchant side of town, money is never exactly "tight" in his house. They always have enough to eat and enough compassion in their hearts to help out those from the Seam.

"Oh, yeah," Geo agrees.

"You wanna come over to my house? Promise my sisters aren't home," laughs Arick as they pass a can full of trash. He carelessly tosses his empty soup cup into the can and jams his now-free hands into his pockets.

"Yep," Geo says, still grinning. "Your shop's still open now, huh?"

"Probably," Arick says with a shrug. "We can go through the back door and my parents won't know we came in."

"Sounds good to me," Geo says nonchalantly, despite the fact that it really doesn't sound good to him. He'd rather…well, he's not exactly sure what he'd rather do, but if it will make Arick happy, then he'll be happy about it too.

They carefully leave the Hob so as to avoid the Peacekeepers, even though just about every Peacekeeper in the district knows about the place. Security has become more and more lax in years of past, which makes hanging out with Arick much easier. At least when he hangs out with Ryan or Devin, they don't do anything that could get them arrested.

Geo has never really been one for breaking the law. Arick has a (un)healthy disregard for rules, so Geo does too. But Ryan follows rules religiously, so Geo does too. Devin doesn't really acknowledge rules, so Geo doesn't as well. But his parents have always taught him to respect authority figures, so he does as well…

Arick wants him to disregard the rules, and that will make Arick like him more. So, he'll disregard the law and take the consequences of his actions, as long as Arick continues to be happy.

…

_(Two Years before the Reapings)_

"Hi, Geo. How is everything?" Ryan asks when Geo answers the door, the sunlight pouring past his shoulders and shining on Geo's face.

"It's alright." Geo shrugs, his eyes downcast. "What about you?"

"Yeah, I'm getting by," Ryan responds, smiling softly.

"So, do you want to come in?" Geo asks, stepping to the side to let Ryan inside.

"Yeah, thanks." Ryan walks past him as Geo quietly shuts the door behind him.

The Stryker house certainly isn't anything special. It is, however, nicer to hang out in than Ryan's place. It's several levels below Arick's house, but Ryan doesn't really know Arick and Arick doesn't really know Ryan. Geo doesn't even want to think about what would happen if they happened to cross paths while he was with one of them…

Geo settles down on the floor, letting Ryan take the couch. _It's common courtesy_, he thinks.

_Nah, it's not_, Arick's voice says in his head.

"Are you parents out on a shift as well?" Ryan asks.

"Yeah," Geo replies. "They've got an extra-long shift today, unfortunately."

"That's more caps, though," Ryan says.

Geo answers with a small inclination of his head. He opens his mouth to say something else, until he's interrupted by a knock at the door. "I'll get it," he volunteers, hopping up from off the floor and heading toward the door. He pulls it open and takes a step backward.

"Hey, Geo!" Arick exclaims. "How's it going?"

"Oh…" Geo says, his eyes wide and darting back and forth between Arick and Ryan. "Uh…great! I, uh…"

"Hey, who's this?" Arick asks casually, grinning.

Geo takes a deep breath and quickly plasters his grin to his face. "Ryan, uh, uhm, Ryan Welch."

"Hi," Ryan says with a small wave, his eyebrows furrowed.

The silence that stretches in the room makes Geo's breathing speed up. Is he supposed to talk, that would make Arick happy? Or is he supposed to just be quiet and comfortable, like Ryan would prefer? Should he be grinning and laughing or quiet and thoughtful? He takes another step backward, suddenly feeling like the walls are closing in on him. What's he supposed to be doing? What's going to make both of them happy? Quiet, happy, thoughtful, loud, grinning, downcast, what is it? Who does he care about more? Who does he want to please more? Arick or Ryan? Arick or Ryan? Arick or Ryan Arick or Ryan Arick or Ryan? Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god—

"Geo, are you…are you alright?" Ryan asks, his face suddenly right in front of Geo's. Arick is just beside him, waving his hand in front of Geo's eyes.

"Um, uh, ah…yeah! Yes, I'm—I'm fine," Geo stammers, feeling nauseous. "Can you—you guys, um, go—go somewhere else?" Oh god, he can't ask them to leave! They're going to hate him! "Or—or don't. You can—can stay, if you—you want to—"

Arick suddenly snaps in front of his eyes. Geo blinks rapidly at his fingers, trying to get his vision to stop blurring. He tries to focus his eyes on one of their faces but—who does he look at? Arick or Ryan? Arick or Ryan? Arick or Ryan Arick or Ryan Arick or Ryan? He starts hyperventilating again, pulling his hands to his chest. Which of them does he look at? Which one does he cater to? Who is he supposed to be?

…who _is_ he?

Geo suddenly pushes both of them way and charges for the bathroom. He collapses by the toilet and throws up the meager contents of his stomach, his hands clenching tightly around the bowl. Once he has successfully emptied his stomach, he coughs up bile and kicks the door closed. Neither of them need to see this. They already hate him enough. He pushed them away and freaked out in front of them and god they must hate him. They must hate him so much.

He rolls onto his back and starts at the ceiling, his vision still blurred. The dirty ceiling shivers in his view as his eyelids threaten to drop closed. He blinks slowly as if trying to decipher tiny words written on the ceiling. After a long moment, he rolls onto his side, grabs for the toilet bowl, and pulls himself to his feet. He leans heavily against the wall, takes a few deep breaths, and reopens the door.

"Geo! Are you okay?" Ryan exclaims, rushing toward him.

Geo looks at him cautiously. "Yes. Yes…I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Arick asks from a few feet away.

"Yep," Geo answers, locking eyes with Arick and trying to make himself grin. "I just…got real nauseous there for a moment, but I'm good now. Promise." He looks toward Ryan. "I'm sorry I messed everything up, though."

"You're good!" Arick assures.

"Yes, it's okay," Ryan agrees.

Geo closes his eyes for a few moments. They might say it's okay, but he knows they hate him. _They both despise me_, he decides. It's amazing how quickly he messed everything up.

_Larch Tyre, 18_

"_The true victims are the ones still alive."_

_(Eleven Years Before the Reapings)_

"Hey, Larch, wake up. It's getting late," Sorrel says, carefully shaking Larch awake. "You should go up to bed instead of sleeping on the couch. You'll wake up with a crick in your neck."

"But…" Larch mumbles sleepily, shifting his position and looking up to meet Sorrel's eyes. "Where are Mom and Dad?"

"I'm sure they'll be home soon," Sorrel assures him. "How about you go to bed? I'll stay up and wait for Mom and Dad."

"Okay," Larch says slowly as he gets to his feet. He glances at the clock as he passes it and notices that it's well after midnight. "Sorrel?" he calls back down the hallway toward the living room, his eyes dancing nervously.

"Yeah?"

"Shouldn't Mom and Dad be home by now?" Larch asks. Mom and Dad are never out this late, especially not when they have Sage with them.

"I'm sure they'll be home soon, Larch," Sorrel repeats, but even Larch can't miss the nervous edge in his voice.

"And Sage? Will she be home soon too?"

"Of course," Sorrel says. "She'll be home with Mom and Dad."

"…promise?" Larch asks, unable to apprehension from his voice. Mom and Dad and Sage _definitely_ should be home by now. They left hours ago, before the sun even set! It's been too long and they should be back.

"Promise," Sorrel says, appearing at Larch's shoulder. "Now let's get you to bed."

Larch sighs and lets Sorrel guide him into their bedroom. He slowly climbs into bed as Sorrel closes the door. The darkness doesn't make him feel very confident.

He rolls over and starts resolutely at the wall. He'll stay up until Mom and Dad come too. _They'll be home soon_, he tells himself. It repeats like a mantra in his head until he at last drifts off into a restless, fragile sleep.

The sound that wakes him up is someone knocking on their door. It's a little weird, Larch notes, that his parents would knock before coming inside. Maybe it's just out of courtesy, since they would probably assume that both he and Sorrel are asleep. Then they'll turn the key and come inside, and they'll come reassure Larch and he can go back to bed…

Sure enough, the front door opens, but the voices he hears through the door aren't his parents' or his older sister's.

Uneasiness creeping into his stomach, Larch quickly slips out of bed and pads down the hallway. When he reaches the end of it, he peers around the corner and sees Sorrel standing in the doorway, talking to a pair of men in bright white uniforms.

_Peacekeepers_, he realizes with a jolt. But…why are there Peacekeepers in his house in the middle of the night? Are they coming to arrest them? But Larch has never done anything against the law…

"A few hours ago, the bodies of who we believe to be your family members were discovered in the Slums…"

Larch doesn't pick up the rest. All that registers is the word "bodies". Bodies, as in, dead people. Dead people, as in, dead family members. Dead family members, as in his mom and dad and sister. Dead as in _dead_.

For a long moment, Larch doesn't really move. He just stares off into space, his eyes wide and his mind working overtime to process this…new development. Then, all at once, he wakes up and charges forward, making a mad grab for Sorrel's hand. "Sorrel," he says, blinking rapidly. "Did they say…did they say that Mom and Dad are…dead?"

Larch may be seven years old, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know what death is. He knows that dead means _dead_. Mom, Dad and Sage are gone. They aren't coming back.

"Larch, go back to bed," Sorrel says. "I'll tell you in the morning—"

"I'm afraid we need to escort you to the Community Home," one of the Peacekeepers interrupts.

"What?" Sorrel and Larch say in unison, for different reasons.

Larch has heard of the kind of bad stuff that happens at the Community Home. Dixie Spoke-Wheeler has done a lot for the place, but it's still overflowing and running low on funds. He doesn't want to go there! He wants to stay home with Sorrel and Sage and Mom and Dad…he doesn't want this!

His parents can't just be…dead! That's…that's not _allowed_!

But the look on Sorrel's face tells him that is, and that there's no way back.

…

_(Seven Years before the Reapings)_

If Larch thought the Community Home is unsanitary, then the plane factories are absolutely cesspools. And, yeah, they are. There are rats that run past his feet and he feels afraid to put his hands on anything as he works. Not to mention that the machinery is extremely dangerous. Larch has seen more severed fingers in his seven months of working here than he ever wanted to see. There are random splotches of blood on the ground from where said fingers where severed, and no one ever bothered to clean it up.

So, it makes for a wonderful working experience. It's too loud to talk, and even though Larch is surrounded by tons of other kids his age, he has yet to get any of their names. He doesn't really _want_ any of their names, but the sentiment still stands. He's never been the best at forming meaningful connections with people.

Unfortunately, he's only halfway through his shift, which means he's going to be standing here for another five hours before he and Sorrel can head back to the Community Home.

Sorrel himself is standing next to Larch, looking about as dead as Larch feels. They're both just so tired. Larch can't really remember the last time he woke up feeling rested. Each day just blurs together with the last, a never-ending swirl of factory shifts, empty stomachs and long nights in which little sleep is gained. Those nights in bed does give Larch ample time to think about how his life came to this. He doubts that most eleven-year-olds out there are spending their nights wondering how their life got fucked so quickly, but he's never been "most eleven-year-olds".

His hands move sluggishly, going about their tedious work without much thought. He's been at this long enough he hardly puts any focus into his job, only reminding himself to move quickly enough to keep the supervisors off his back. He glances sidelong at Sorrel, his hands moving deftly as he stares off into space. It's mind-numbing work they do, but it pays acceptably. Maybe one day they'll be able to save up enough to get out of the Community Home, to live somewhere nice and eat every night. It's a far-fetched dream, but it's one that Larch is willing to work to achieve. Anything to fix this mess of a life he now lives.

Larch heaves a heavy sigh and drops his head toward his chest. The ground beneath his worn shoes is dirty, rough and splattered with a substance Larch really, _really_ hopes isn't blood. It certainly doesn't smell good in the factory either. It's hot, since none of the windows near the ceiling can be opened, which also traps the smell inside. It smells like…well, he's not exactly sure how to describe it, but it kind of reminds him of death. Just, like, the thought of death. It's unsurprising, considering just how many people the machinery has killed—

The ear-splitting shriek from beside him shakes his out of his thoughts of smells. He whirls around, dropping whatever plane-parts he was holding, which hit the ground with a loud latter. Blood sprays onto his face, making him fall backwards with shock and hit the disgusting ground.

Sorrel continues to scream as the machine's blades eat at his arm and side. Blood continues to trickle across the floor, congregating in the palms of Larch's hand. The supervisors continue to do nothing as Sorrel is quite literally eaten alive by one of their beloved machines.

Larch suddenly powers to his feet and rushes towards Sorrel's free leg. He reaches out for it, but stops at the last second. Is there really anything he can do? Is there anything he can do to save Sorrel? Or will he just get himself sucked into the machine as well?

Besides, it's not like they have the money to get Sorrel fixed, even if he was savable.

**A/N: I really don't like how this chapter came out. I feel like I wrote all three of these tributes really, really badly. Geo especially just felt…off to me. If you submitted one of them, how did I do? **

**Anyways, final intros! The feeling of having the Reapings done never gets old. **

**1\. Thoughts on Mercury?**

**2\. Thoughts on Geo?**

**3\. Thoughts on Larch?**

**4\. Which of these three is your favorite?**

**Random Question: So, now that we've seen everyone, who is your pick for Victor?**

**My answer: well, I think I've pretty much come a conclusion on who is going to win, so there's that.**

**Also, there is a new poll on my profile, so make sure to vote on that. **

**-Amanda**


	15. Reaping Recap

_Graciela Purdue, 28_

_President of Panem_

_**(TW for mentions of sexual abuse, physical abuse, mentions of attempted suicide and verbal abuse)**_

"I keep telling you that I'm doing everything I can," Graciela says into the phone, her impatience creeping into her voice. "My advisors simply won't accept a sixteen-year-old as the Vice President—"

"_I'm doing everything I can_," Ezra says in a mocking voice. "Whatever you're doing isn't enough! Don't you know that I can—"

"I'm going to have to cut this phone call short," Graciela says tiredly. "I have to go meet the Gamemakers for the Recap."

With that, she hangs up the phone, giving Ezra no second thought. After all, she has a recap to attend.

As she makes her way down the halls of the Tribute Center, she mulls over her conversation with Ezra. He's a problem and she knows it, but there isn't much she can do to fix it. Even someone as crazy as Etta Snow was didn't really believe in nepotism. It's clear to Graciela that Ezra doesn't exactly get that. Or maybe he does. The way of Ezra will forever be beyond her.

"Graciela, hello," Silas greets as she enters the Gamemaking Center. "We have much to discuss."

Graciela purses her lips and shakes her head as she takes a seat beside the Head Gamemaker. It's sad to think that this is his last year in the top spot, but, Graciela supposes, everyone must move on eventually. And Silas has had a pretty good run of it; all more-or-less acceptable Victors (minus Vin, Graciela muses), starting with Hestia and going to now…it's certainly nothing to sneeze at.

"So, we'll start with District 1, shall we?" Silas suggests, folding his hands in front of his chest and looking to Lanai Hollister, who dropped into her seat moments before and appears rather disheveled.

"Of course," Lanai says quickly, straightening her posture. "So, this is Calista Abbey."

The screen shows a rather short, eighteen-year-old girl with dark hair. _Odd for District 1_, Graciela notes.

Calista lunges for the stage as she calls out that she volunteers, apparently trying to beat someone else to the punches.

"As I'm sure you've assumed, Calista was not the chosen volunteer," Lanai says. "Court Academy has claimed that Silvera Prowess was the chosen volunteer, with Calista falling in seventh place. Calista herself comes from a fairly average background; both parents alive, although her relationship with her father is said to be strenuous at best. Calista lives full time at Court, likely because of her poor relationship with her family. No siblings, but she does have a boyfriend named Ryder. Court has said she is extremely competitive and determined, which may or may not hinder her in the arena. Any questions?"

Graciela silently shakes her head, gesturing for Lanai to go on.

"Alright, then. Shad Marcum, also eighteen-years-old," Lanai continues.

The screen shows a boy with dark brown hair confidently proclaiming that he volunteers. "He is, for once, the chosen volunteer. Apparently worlds ahead of the other trainees, at least in his own not-so-humble opinion. Sources state that he is a bit of a bully, possibly even a pathological narcissistic, but there's no medical data to back that claim up. He does have skill on his side, however, and is noted to have his spot be well-deserved. Home life is normal; two parents, a lot of siblings, no really awful relationships. Questions?"

Graciela contemplates Lanai's disheveled appearance for a moment before she says, "No. Go on."

"District 2, then!" Lanai says. "Now, I'm sure that Caius is going to be raving over Scoria but Wonder is certainly going to cause us some issues."

"First of all, Lanai, please keep the insults out of the briefing," Silas says curtly. "Secondly, yes, Wonder is a…small liability. Let's start with him."

Lanai raises her eyebrows, seeming annoyed, but goes on anyway. It leaves Graciela wondering what kind of person she's going to be dealing with next year. "Right. Wonder Hammerfort—I'm sure everyone here recognizes that name."

The surrounding Gamemakers nod their assent; Graciela knows that none of them could ever forget about Wake Hammerfort, after all.

If they had, then the twelve-year-old boy volunteering on the screen who bears a striking resemblance to his deceased sister will likely jog their memories.

"Wake definitely should have won," one of the mutt-specialists, who Graciela assumes is Caius, mutters.

Lanai casts him a disdainful look and continues. "Wonder has had quite a time in the past few years; first with the death of his older sister, who was the shining beacon of hope in his life. Second with the continued sexual abuse from his father, Yoldan Hammerfort. Third with three unsuccessful suicide attempts. Fourth with the murder of his abuser by one of his teachers, Rupert Stonehold, who was later executed. Wonder himself was later taken into Peacekeeper custody, and was scheduled to be executed shortly following the Reapings—"

"I would bet people didn't like that," Graciela comments.

"Oddly enough," Silas responds. "most people felt it was a fair and just punishment for a young, severely abused boy who happened to be an accomplice to murder."

"People certainly have odd judgement, then." It's beyond odd to Graciela that no one would care; especially with the huge fanbase Wake had garnered in the last Quarter Quell. She would think that that, if nothing else, would have come to Wonder's aid.

"So, to save his own life—" Silas begins.

"Or lose it," Lanai mutters, earning a pointed glare from Silas.

"Wonder volunteered," Silas finishes, carefully setting his hands in his lap.

"Scoria Primer," Lanai says suddenly, cutting over the end of Silas's sentence. Graciela may not be the sharpest tack in the box, but it doesn't take a genius to see that Lanai has something else on her mind.

On screen, Scoria calmly walks toward the stage and volunteers, as if knowing she would face no opposition. "The daughter of the head Peacekeeper of District 2, which certainly puts her a step above most everyone else. Sources say her parents trained her rigorously—perhaps a little bit too hard—from the tender young age of four. She started attending Stander at the same age as everyone else and showed exceptional prowess from the moment she set foot inside. Nothing of note happened for the next few years until…well, let's just say, her new boyfriend didn't go over so well with her parents. She was dating a boy named Favio, who reportedly disappeared after they became a couple. There have been no leads on the case, but it's mainly because her father keeps shutting it down before it can get off the ground."

Graciela swallows visibly. If Lanai is implying what she thinks she's implying…Scoria may already have some kills to her name. She can't decide if it will help or hinder Scoria in the arena.

"Questions?" Lanai asks.

"I say Scoria's got one hell of chance of taking Victory," Caius says proudly from his seat.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Viktus," Lanai says, sighing annoyedly. "So, District 3. I gotta say, not much to show for these guys. Normal kids, especially when compared to what we've had in the past. I daresay it makes it worse."

Graciela wonders for a moment what Lanai means by "makes it worse". What makes what worse?

"We'll start off with Lana," Lanai says.

On-screen Lana looks calm for a long moment before she gasps and stumbles to the stage, her eyes blank and wide. "So, Lana Meadows. At the age of six months, her family moved from 10 to 3, as a part of the program to get intelligence recognized and utilized. Lana herself is said to be an extroverted and likable girl, but at fourteen you have to think about her chances, you know?"

"Don't count anyone out of the running, though," Silas says quickly. "After all, Divinity…" he trails off as if he doesn't know where he's going with that.

Graciela has never been particularly troubled by Divinity's victory. She likes the Hunger Games to be as fair as possible, so she refused to allow Silas to count Vin out of the running. Rebel or not, Divinity deserves a chance to see the error of her ways.

"Any questions on Lana?" Lanai asks, seemingly eager to change the topic.

"No," Graciela answers.

"Darwin Abner, then."

Darwin appears from the crowd of fifteen-year-olds with his brow furrowed. One of the Peacekeepers seems to decide he's taking too long and roughly grabs him by the arm to drag him to the stage. Darwin angrily rips his arm from the Peacekeeper's grasp and stalks to the stage, staring out at the crowd with stormy eyes. "Back at it again with a nice, normal tribute!" Lanai exclaims, but her face doesn't match her tone. "Darwin has a bit of reputation as a spitfire. He'll argue to anyone about anything with worrying about the consequences. It has, as expected, gotten him into trouble time and time again. He's seemingly cleaned up his act a bit as of recent, after a spell where he got suspended from school for initiating a fight that turning violent. Questions?"

Graciela shakes her head as District 4 appears on the screen.

A strong voice calls out that she volunteers from the fifteen-year-olds section, and Ottilie Blackwell appears from the crowd. Graciela raises her eyebrows at the lack of opposition Ottilie faces in volunteering and looks to Silas and Lanai for an explanation.

"I know what you're thinking," Lanai says. "'A fifteen-year-old volunteer! Who's the chosen volunteer though?' Well, through a statistically improbable turn of events, Ottilie was chosen as the volunteer at fifteen. We're not exactly sure how it happened, but we can guess Ottilie is extremely talented. The youngest chosen volunteer in District 4 history, in fact. Anyways, Ottilie has dedicated almost her entire life to the Hunger Games. She has no siblings, her only family being her mother whom she doesn't see often. Questions?"

"So you have no idea why she was chosen as the volunteer?" Graciela clarifies.

"Yes," Lanai says impatiently. "Although, we should tell Alistair to remember that—it would make a good question for the interviews."

"Continue," Graciela says, puzzled.

"Bayou Hacksom, then," Lanai says as the said tribute volunteers on screen. "Bayou comes a background that most people in District 4 describe as "backwater" or even just "lesser". The backwater-tidewater rivalry isn't particularly well known, but that's mainly because backwater citizens tend to get absolutely nowhere. It's practically unheard of for one to be the chosen volunteer, which must mean Bayou is special. Bayou himself is described as being respectful and "as tactful as a backwater boy can be"—Faustus's words, not mine—so I doubt he'll pose us any issues. Questions?"

Graciela shakes her head.

"District 5," Lanai says as the power district appears on the screen. The escort, apparently, chose to reap the boys first, as fourteen-year-old Sterne Colvin comes to the stage. He appears neutral, almost bored as he takes his place beside the escort. "Sterne comes from a normal background. His childhood has been far from difficult, and Sterne has a bit of reputation as a troublemaker. Nothing extreme, but he and his friends are pretty well-known in their part of the city for being jokesters. Basically, he's a good-natured kid with a normal family and a normal life."

Graciela can't miss the hint of some emotion in Lanai's voice, but she's not exactly sure just what emotion it is. Sadness? Regret? Longing? Annoyance? Well, that last one is pretty much true for everything Lanai says. Graciela can't think of a time she's seen Lanai and she hasn't been annoyed.

"Liesel Leenheer, seventeen-years-old." Liesel sports dirty blonde hair as she emerges from the crowd. Once she reaches the stage, she snatches the microphone from the escort's hands and shouts,

"You know what? Fuck this shit! Fuck all of this shit."

Graciela raises her eyebrows at the girl. "Wow."

"Yes, wow," Lanai agrees. "Anyways, Liesel's family owns one of the largest power plant chains in District 5; they run almost every hydro-power plant in the whole district. So, bottom line is: the Leenheers are _rich_. They're so disgustingly rich they probably eat their money for breakfast and—"

Lanai catches Silas looking at her out of the corner of his eye. "Um, right. Anyways, Liesel used to be dating a girl named Noor until she caught Noor cheating on her. She now dates Dyna Halsey, whom, I might add—and this is the height of pettiness—Noor used to have a crush on. Liesel, as far as I can tell, only dates Dyna to piss Noor off. Questions?"

Graciela shakes her head, her eyebrows still raised at the sight of Liesel's…well, everything. "Carry on."

Lanai nods once. "In District 6, we have a second tribute who has been affected by the intelligence utilization program President Snow set up. This is Jayce Dotter, eighteen-years-old." The screen shows a tiny girl with short brown hair silently makes her way to the stage, her eyes blank and her face like stone. "At the age of fifteen, her family was moved from District 12 to District 6, which split Jayce and her girlfriend, Ishtar. Jayce's family had been on the poorer side of things back in District 12, but had a nice amount of money when they came to District 6. Jayce is currently in a relationship with Drew Huck and appears to have more or less forgotten about Ishtar. Questions?"

"Go on," Graciela says.

"So, Larch Tyre," Lanai says as the boy appears from the crowd of eighteen-years-old. He seems angered by this turn of events as he stalks up to the stage. "At the age of seven, Larch's parents and older sister were murdered while out at the store."

_I need someone to look into lowering the crime rates in District 6,_ Graciela thinks.

"Several years later, his older brother was killed in a machinery accident at the plane factory that they both worked at. Chances are, Larch is pretty traumatized from seeing his brother die before his own eyes," Lanai continues, starting to seem bored. "After that, Larch continued to work and live at the Community Home. People describe him as quiet and closed off, especially after everything that has happened to him. Any questions?"

Graciela is beginning to wonder why Lanai bothers to ask for question. She has never been one to wait for her turn to speak; if she has a question, she'll voice it.

"Right. District 7," Lanai says.

The screen shows Mercury Harrigan stalking calmly to the stage. His face betrays no emotion whatsoever, but from the sounds of someone crying in the viewing section, there's definitely people back home to miss him. "So, Mercury Harrigan. His parents died when he was a baby, leaving him in the care of his aunt and uncle, Marion and William. They were, to put it…well, not nicely, but simply, extremely abusive. Sources say they demanded absolute perfection for Mercury and violently punished him when he failed to comply. It is also said that he has a fear of speaking. So, a few years ago, Marion and William were caught and executed, and Mercury was adopted by Zela Weber. She has been helping him heal, so he's certainly better off than he was two years ago, but that's some pretty low hanging fruit. Questions?"

Graciela shakes her head again.

"Moving on to a surprising volunteer; Eris Rowan, thirteen-years-old," Lanai continues. "Sources say the girl she volunteered for was her older sister, who is paralyzed from the waist down. Apparently her sister was paralyzed after Eris fell out of a tree and landed on her a few years back. Other than that, she's got a father who always busy and a dead mom. She's gonna get attention for being a volunteer, and an extremely brave one at that. I assume no questions?"

"Go on," Graciela says, looking at Eris's face as she stands on the stage. _She's much braver than I would have been at her age._

"So, this is Lyndie Franklin," Lanai says. Graciela's eyes follow the fair-skinned girl from the crowd to the stage as she clearly fights to keep it together. "Lyndie is the youngest in a family of seven siblings, all of which are brothers. Her family attends one of the small, underground churches that remain in District 8, which already puts her on a list of…potential risks."

Graciela is well-aware of how the Capitol views religion; it's awful. After all, many high-ranking Capitolites think that the Capitol should be worshipped, not a so-called "God". Graciela herself has never seen a problem with religion, as long as it poses no problem to the Capitol's security. Let people believe what they want to believe unless it becomes an issue. Would people agree with that standpoint? Probably not. "Continue."

"Navarro Lune," Lanai begins only to be interrupted by Silas.

"Navarro is a huge liability," he says, watching on-screen Navarro scream at the audience and demand someone volunteer for them. "He's twelve-years-old, but he already poses an enormous threat to Capitol security. He falls in a similar vein to Mercy Mitsui; the child of a major drug-lord who needs to be taken down a peg."

"So their children are targeted?" Graciela asks incredulously.

"Graciela, please. These kids are going to one day grow up to be exactly like their parents," Silas says, shaking his head. "It's easiest to eliminate them early with something like the Hunger Games."

"_And_," Lanai says loudly. "Rigging their deaths is, after all, always an option."

Graciela nods. "I see. Continue."

"Ainsley Platte, then," Lanai says, watching the girl approach the stage with an odd mixture of terror and excitement written on her face. "Ainsley is said to be a little…weird, so to speak."

"Weird how?" Graciela inquires, looking the girl up and down.

"Weird is the way of she doesn't listen to what anybody says," Lanai answers. "Basically, you tell her to do something, and she's more likely to do the complete opposite, just because you told her to. In terms of family, however, everything is pretty normal. She has two brothers and both of her parents are present in her life. She's _relatively_ normal—depending, I suppose, on what your definition of "normal" is—but some people might peg her as crazy. Questions?"

Lanai waits for less than a second before she powers on. "Everett Reed, seventeen-years-old." Graciela watches as he makes his way to the stage, his face conflicted. "He takes being a "work-a-holic" to a new level. Ever since his mother cheated and got pregnant with twins, he's been doing nothing but working to keep his family fed. Sources say he's bitter toward his mother for what she's done, but doesn't blame his half-siblings for being born. Questions?"

Once again, Lanai plows on without waiting for an answer. "Afandina Hariri, seventeen-years-old."

Afandina looks out to the crowd of viewers as he stumbles to the stage, and, after a moment, begins to cry. Graciela raises her eyebrows at him.

"Afandina is—or used to be—a chronic gambler. It was an addiction that he has since been more or less broken of after blowing thousands of caps to a game at a casino. He now resides at a farm with one of his father's friends to learn the "value of hard work"." Lanai does air-quotes around the word "value of hard work" as if to accentuate how stupid she clearly thinks it.

Graciela, meanwhile, doesn't quite understand why Lanai thinks that's so unrealistic. It seems like a perfectly acceptable solution to her. "Carry on."

"Tamarah Colt," Lanai says as the camera zeroes in on a clearly-hungover girl in the sixteen-years-old section. "As you can see, she likes her alcohol a little bit too much. When she was a little kid, her father got into an accident, which cut out their main source of income, and Tamarah started to drink shortly thereafter. It was her way to cope with…everything, I suppose. Apparently, Tamarah is not super welcomed around her home because of her late-night activities. Questions?"

"Is her father dead, then?" Graciela asks.

Lanai consults the manilla folder in front of her. "Yep. For eight years, apparently."

"Continue."

"Ashe Illyrian," Lanai says as the stone-faced girl emerges from the crowd of fourteen-year-olds. "Sources describe Ashe as a studious, intelligent girl. Her family life is relatively normal, aside from her older sister marrying into the mayor's family and completely abandoning the rest of the Illyrians. A few years ago, Ashe did run with a crowd of…worse-for-ware kids, but has since moved on from that period. Questions?"

"No."

"Quinn Bayers," Lanai exclaims. "Another volunteer, this time for different, but similarly noble reasons. His father built up a huge pile of debt to a local gang, and after his death, Quinn's remaining family members were saddled with the required payments. Quinn eventually decided that the only way to successfully pay everything off was to volunteer for this year's Games. His philosophy appears to be that if he wins, more money. If he loses, less money to waste on food. Questions?"

"Go on."

Lanai appears to breathe a sigh of relief. "Okay, here is where things get…interesting. This is Ishtar Marmaduke, the third volunteer in District 12 history."

Graciela looks skeptically at the girl as she volunteers on the screen. "Isn't that…?"

"Yes. Jayce Dotter's former girlfriend," Lanai says regretfully. "As far as I can see, when Jayce moved to District 6, she and Ishtar made an agreement to both volunteer for the Hunger Games when they turned eighteen. Ishtar, clearly, held up her end of the bargain, but we don't know if Jayce was planning to volunteer as well. Other than that, Ishtar's parents are more than absentee. They are rarely home, and tend to forget Ishtar is even there at all. They are extremely well-off, though. Perhaps one of the richest families in District 12, which is not saying much, but they've definitely got a pretty penny. Questions?"

"So Jayce was or wasn't planning to volunteer?" Graciela asks.

Lanai sighs impatiently. "We don't know. Can I move on now?"

"Of course."

"Alright then. We're closing out strong with Geo Stryker, fifteen-years-old."

Graciela notices the blank look in Geo's eyes as he robotically makes his way to the stage but chooses not to comment on it.

"Geo takes being a people-pleaser far too. He basically has different personalities, tailored to work for whatever person he's currently with. Other than that…_that_, his family is extremely poor. His parents work long hours in the mines, which Geo would likely do as well if it was legal. Questions?"

"No," Graciela says. She chuckles a little bit. "Problematic bunch, aren't they? Jayce, Ishtar, Lyndie, Navarro."

"Sure are," Silas agrees in a joking tone, but it doesn't take a genius to see that he's concerned about it. "Don't worry about it; I'm sure everything will turn out fine."

"Yes, I'm sure it will," Lanai says impatiently. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be. See ya, bitches."

"How that woman keeps her job is beyond me," Caius mutters.

Graciela can't help but agree with that sentiment.

**A/N: Reaping recaps are boring, fun fact. It's just the same thing over and over again. "This is Bob. Bob does this. Bob's family is this. Questions?" **

**1\. Who is your favorite tribute?**

**2\. Who is your least favorite tribute?**

**3\. Who do you think will die in the Bloodbath?**

**4\. Who do you think will make it to the Final Eight?**

**Random Question: where does Lanai have to be? **

**My answer: you'll find out soon since this is a double update with another interlude. **

**-Amanda**


	16. Divinity Gained

_Divinity "Vin" Faust, 13_

_Victor of the 152__nd__ Annual Hunger Games_

You'd never understand her shock when she's told that the future Head Gamemaker would like to speak with her. It doesn't make her feel confident going into the room, especially with Vin's track record. Who knows what Lanai Hollister could want from her? It could be anything. Information on rebels that Vin doesn't have, names of members of Un Meilleur Avenir that she doesn't have, future rebel plans that she doesn't have…it could be anything.

Vin takes a deep breath and raises her fist to knock on the door. She stands there, stock still, for a long moment before she raps on the hard wood. Thirty odd seconds later, the door opens to reveal Lanai Hollister. "Divinity. Come in."

_It's weird that Lanai is meeting with me in the Head Gamemaker's office, right?_ Vin wonders as she carefully sits down on the chair across from Lanai. She perches cautiously on the edge, unsure and nervous. "So…" Vin says, drumming her fingers on her legs. "What's up?"

"I'm gonna level with you, Vin," Lanai says seriously, crossing her legs. "I'm trying to start a rebellion."

Vin is so shocked that she nearly laughs, but at the look on Lanai's face, she stifles it. "Um…uh, _what_?"

"You heard me." Lanai idly picks at one of her nails for a few seconds before she continues. "Silas is, more or less, in on it as well. But it's not going to work unless we get more traction. I think you could be exactly what we need."

"I…" Vin stammers, looking Lanai up and down. "Is this a test of my loyalty to the Capitol? Because if it is, I—"

"No, no, no," Lanai says quickly. "None of that. I promise this is a real attempt to end the Capitol's tyranny and the Hunger Games, once and for all."

Vin contemplates it for a moment. Rebellion is all she has ever wanted. To see the districts liberated from the Capitol's iron grip as been her dream since she was a little girl. To end the horror, the pain and the suffering that has been caused by the Hunger Games seems almost too good to be true. It leaves Vin feeling overly skeptical about the true nature of this meeting. "I'm still not sure…"

"Vin, I'm going to level with you," Lanai says, folding her hands on the bridge of her nose. "Have you ever heard the name Ezra Renius?"

"…no?"

"Well, that's because Ezra Renius is actually Ezra Snow, Etta's grandson," Lanai says. "He took the new moniker to avoid accusations of nepotism. He's currently studying at the universities in District 3, but he's only a stone's throw away from the Capitol. That's why we have to be discreet with everything we're doing. If Ezra decides to bring his wrath down upon us…heads will roll, and things will not be pretty."

"I don't get why you're telling me this." And Vin really doesn't; no matter how much she wants to start an open rebellion, she's got enough realism in her veins to tell her that it's not going to happen with the snap of one's fingers.

"I'm telling you this because you need to know," Lanai says. "We need your help, Vin. People can look to you. You were rigged into the Hunger Games, told to throw yourself in and die, and you defied everything and won. That's no easy feat. You are an inspiration to the people in the Districts; there are whispers. People want change, and all we have to do is convince to fight for it."

"But this Ezra guy," Vin says. "What's he got to do with it?"

"He wants to take power from Graciela. It's his end goal, despite the fact that he's only sixteen," Lanai says, shaking her head. "You know, when I was sixteen, I was crushing hard on Kasumi Karakara and getting drunk in the middle of the night."

"Okay," Vin says slowly. "Thanks for sharing?"

"What I'm trying to say is that Ezra is the biggest threat to our plans," says Lanai. "He will stop at nothing to gain power, and I mean _nothing_. He will kill anyone who stands in his way, no matter who they are. And…I fear he's starting to get suspicious. I noticed the other day that one of the high-ranking Capitol officials just…disappeared. There's no proof that Ezra is behind it but…"

"What do I have to do with this?" Vin demands. "Because I've got a tribute to mentor and I'd to devote my time to Calista."

"Of course," Lanai says. "But I'm offering you a chance to incite change. All we need is the right person, and that could be you. There's a reason I made sure you got out the arena."

"…w-what?" Vin says incredulously. Her Games were _rigged_? She did _absolutely nothing_ to win?

"Oh." Lanai looks down at her lap. "It's part of our plan, see. We're—we're rigging the Victors to try and get the most rebellious and inspiring one we can—"

Vin flies to her feet, slamming the palms of her hands down onto the desk. "You RIGGED my Victory?" Vin shouts. "YOU SAID IT'S "INSPIRING" THAT I WON! HOW CAN IT BE INSPIRING IF I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING?"

"Vin, please, be quiet," Lanai snaps. "This room isn't sound proof even if it doesn't have any cameras or sound detection—"

"I thought it was amazing that I had survive," Vin growls, her voice deathly calm and venomous. "I thought I had done the impossible. But all along, it was you?"

Lanai stands up as well. "Vin, you have to understand. We knew you would be an inspiration, that you would help incite change, and we need that help right now! Before Ezra catches wind of these plans, before he comes in to shut it down before we get rolling. Please, Vin, it doesn't matter whether your victory was rigged or not. You still won, and you did half of it. But right now, we just need your help. Please."

Vin stares at her for a moment. _Lanai really is passionate about this, isn't she? _"Okay." After a moment, she snaps her hand back up. "But you have to promise me you'll protect Neapolitan, and Peridot, and Cattler, and Alexandrite and Pyrite and Aventurine."

"Not Money or Jacinth?"

"They can go suck my dick," Vin snarls. "Seriously. If this Ezra guy lays a finger on any of them…"

"I understand, Vin," Lanai says, her face flushed with either relief or some other emotion that Vin can't place. "Thank you."

"Yeah, we're not there yet," Vin deadpans. "Now tell me what I have to do."

"Okay," Lanai says. "But first, I have to make a phone call and get someone on a train."

**A/N: Yay for more subplot! **

**1\. Now that Lanai has Vin on board, will things go any more smoothly for the rebels?**

**2\. Who do you prefer, Vin or Lanai?**

**3\. Who do you think Lanai has to get on a train?**

**4\. Which tribute do you think will be most beneficial as a Victor to Lanai's cause?**

**Random Question: I don't know. It's 12:20 a.m. and I should be asleep but I wanted to finish this, so here we are. **

**So, next up is the goodbyes, where we will check in with Ishtar, Liesel, Lana, Scoria and Eris.**

**-Amanda**


	17. The Last Goodbye Is Always the Hardest

_Ishtar Marmaduke, 18_

_District 12 Female_

It comes as no surprise to Ishtar that no one comes to visit her.

It's not that she expected it or anything, but one small part of her was hoping that maybe, just this once, her parents would notice? That they would notice that their only child just volunteered for the fucking Hunger Games? That the sole heir to their _everything_ just chose to enter a death match which she likely will lose?

But _noooo_.

It's no secret that Ishtar's parents could care less about her. Most often, Ishtar doesn't really mind. She's fine with being alone! She doesn't mind the isolation! She works best alone! Of course she does. She doesn't need _anyone_. Anyone aside from Jayce, that is. But she's used to being alone, and she likes it! She's used to Jayce's absence, and she's…she's just fine with it, thank you very much!

Sure, Ishtar is tired of being ignored. Any sane person would be after so many years of being treated as nothing but a ghost. Ishtar may not mind the isolation…but she does mind spending the rest of her existence like that.

She slowly brushes her hand along the velvet-covered window seat. She's so close to seeing Jayce again that she can almost taste it. The feeling of Jayce's lips on hers is on the tip of her tongue, a shallow imprint on her mouth of a time long lost. God, she can't wait. She'll be there soon, and so will Jayce…

…as long as Jayce kept her promise.

Ishtar immediately scolds herself for ever thinking that Jayce would stray like that. Jayce loves her, and she loves Jayce! She's willing to go to any length to be reunited, and surely Jayce feels similarly!

It angers her to no end that she dares to think that, maybe, possibly, Jayce would stay in District 6. After everything they've been through together, of course Jayce volunteered! She made a promise, and Ishtar knows that Jayce _never_ breaks her promises! She'll be there, or Ishtar will eat a bag full of termites.

And, even if she didn't…well, Ishtar likes to be in control. Volunteering is just another desperate bid for that. Because, yeah, Ishtar is desperate. She's desperate to see Jayce. She's desperate to remember what it feels like to be loved. She's desperate to be in control. She's desperate to be remembered. She's desperate to show her parents who their child is. And volunteering is a perfectly acceptable way to achieve all of that.

Ishtar stares out the window, watching as the bleak people of District 12 pass by, each likely more relieved than the last. She practically here their thoughts regarding her—provided she hasn't already been erased from their heads, as that seems to be a common theme in her life—that she's a monster, or perhaps a savior. That she's insane, or perhaps extremely courageous. That she'll lose immediately, or perhaps give 12 a chance at Victory again.

That last one is the one that strikes Ishtar the most. It's the one thing she has never really thought about; what is her plan? To die? To win? If it were a choice between her and Jayce, of course it would be Jayce but…if Jayce were to _die_, what then? Would Ishtar want to win to keep Jayce's memory alive? Or would she want to die, in order to be with Jayce forever?

"Nope," Ishtar says aloud. "Not even touching that one."

It's a bridge she'll cross if—and it's a very, very big if—she gets to it. Perhaps there is another path across the river—one that doesn't involve Jayce's untimely demise.

Long before Ishtar met Jayce, when it felt like it was just her against the world, she used to think that you'd have to be crazy to put someone else before yourself. Of course, she could have never foreseen Jayce. Jayce changed everything, and continues to change everything to this day.

Ishtar finds herself wondering if anyone out there, in all of Panem, knows just what she would do for Jayce. That's what keeps her going everyday: Jayce. Each day that passed was one less she would have to spend alone.

Don't get her wrong! Being alone is…fine. She's used to being alone! But that doesn't stop her heart from aching every day. It's just Ishtar against the world, but soon, it will be Ishtar and Jayce. In less than twenty-four hours, they'll be back together, like they were always intended to be…

_I wonder what Jayce's chariot outfit will be…_Ishtar muses as she continues to stare out the window. _I hope that, whatever it is, it looks good on her…_After a moment, she sits up, shaking her head. _Who am I kidding? Jayce looks good in anything._

Of course Jayce will look good in anything she wears. She's Jayce fucking Dotter, for crying out loud!

A peacekeeper pushes open the door and leads her out of the room. They meet up with her district partner—she either didn't catch his name or didn't pay enough attention to remember it—as they file out of the Justice Building. Ishtar notices that he's eyeing her oddly, making her only glare back in annoyance.

She can't wait to get on the train. After all, it will be her first sighting of Jayce in years. She's practically shaking with anticipation, her heart pounding in her chest as if fighting to be freed. Almost as if it's begging to return to Jayce.

The prospect of seeing Jayce again, of being reunited with the love of her, has been the only thing keeping her going for so, so long. And at last, at long, long last, Juliet will be reunited with her Romeo.

Most people would likely have begun to fall out of love by now. Ishtar didn't. She doubts that she could ever fall out of love with someone as amazing as Jayce is. Besides, Ishtar is loyal. So is Jayce. And if Ishtar never fell out of love, then surely Jayce didn't either.

_Liesel Leenheer, 17_

_District 5 Female_

"If you're going to win, you're just going to have to—"

"Let me stop you there," Liesel says, holding out her hands. "Tena, trust me. This is _fine_. I'll be _fine_."

Tena scoffs, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "Oh, please. You'll be dead in five minutes."

"Well, thank you for your vote of confidence," Liesel growls. "You can go now."

It's no secret that Liesel and Tena have never been the best of friends. Tena comes home with a different boy on her arm every other week, and Liesel has never really gotten behind that. It's also no secret that Liesel doesn't exactly approve of sleeping around, not after what happened with Noor.

"This is likely the last time we'll ever seen each other," Tena says. If she feels at all hurt by that notion, she doesn't let on. "Don't you have anything you want to say to me?"

Liesel considers it for a moment. "No. Now fuck off. Chop-chop."

For a fraction of second, Tena looks almost hurt. She quickly composes herself, however, and says, "Fine, then. Don't bother coming home."

With that, she sweeps from the room, leaving Liesel momentarily alone. No sooner has she sat down on the velvet couch do her parents burst into the room, faces tear-streaked and panic-stricken.

"Oh, Liesel!" her mother coos through her tears, quickly grasping one of Liesel's hands. "You have to come home to us. Promise us, please!"

Liesel sighs. "Of course I'm coming home. Don't be silly."

Her father, slightly less of ditz in her opinion, takes her other hand and says, "Liesel, you do know that winning the Hunger Games isn't easy."

"No shit, Sherlock," Liesel says tiredly. "Dad, really. I know that winning the Hunger Games isn't easy. Anyone with half a brain cell knows that. But I'm going to try, I promise."

"That's all you ever can do," her father agrees, pulling Liesel into a hug. Liesel wraps her arms around his back, feeling her hand brush against his ring of keys. An idea coming to her head, she slips them off of his belt, and, once she pulls away, carefully tucks them into her pocket. She'll never be allowed to bring a bunch of keys into the arena, but leaving them in the Capitol would serve as a reminder of her existence should she fail to survive.

With one last hasty goodbye, her parents are gone as well, quickly replaced with Dyna.

Liesel bites her lips, wondering what to do with Dyna.

Dyna throws her arms around Liesel's shoulders and pulls her into a tight hug. Once Liesel realizes that her shirt is getting wet, she comes to the conclusion that Dyna is crying into her shoulder. She awkwardly pats Dyna's back, unsure what exactly to do now. Maybe breaking up with her isn't going to be as easy as it sounds.

"So, Dyna…" Liesel says, pulling out of Dyna's hold and toying with the keys in her pocket. "These past few months have been…some of the best of my life. But I can't keep you in a relationship when I may die in a few days…it would just be too cruel."

She can see Dyna's face falling further and further with each word that comes out of her mouth, but she doesn't stop. "So, as much as it pains me to do this, I'm breaking up with you."

For a long, awful moment, Dyna is completely silent. And then she takes Liesel's hands and says, "I-I…"

"I'm sorry but—"

"Time's up!" Suddenly Dyna is pulled out of the room, leaving Liesel standing in the center of it with her eyebrows raised. She's not exactly sure if what she did was the right thing—it's the best for her, obviously. If she comes back, she doesn't want to be tied down to Dyna forever. Being petty is only so much inspiration to stay in a relationship when there is nothing there. And if she dies, it's probably the best for Dyna—but, then again, Liesel has never really understood Dyna—

When the door opens again, the person who comes through nearly makes Liesel start screaming.

"Liesel, I—"

"What are you doing here, Noor?" Liesel growls, sitting stiffly in one of the plush armchairs.

"I just came to try one last time," Noor mumbles, looking at the floor. "I know that sorry doesn't change the past, Liesel. But I'm trying to make amends, one last time. I don't know about you, but I don't want you to die when both of us still hate each other. Is it too much to ask for you to forgive me?"

Liesel seriously considers Noor's words. After a moment, her face turns stony and says, "Yes. It is."

Noor's face falls, but it quickly turns angry. "You know what, Liesel? Fuck you. I've tried and tried and tried to apologize, but it's up to you to forgive me."

"Well, it's never going to happen," Liesel says tartly. "You'd think you would have realized that by now, but no. You really are stupid, aren't you?"

"I'm persistent," Noor says in that tone that Liesel used to adore. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life hating you, and if you're dead, it's impossible to make amends. Just, please…if you ever really loved, won't you do me this one justice?"

Liesel stares at the floor by Noor's shoes for a long moment. Eventually, she looks up and meets Noor's eyes. God, she used to love those eyes. They were so easy to get lost in… "I can't forgive you, Noor. I'm sorry, but I just can't. Not after what you did. I loved you. I really did."

"And I did as well," Noor says, reaching for Liesel's hand. She pulls it away before Noor can grasp it. "I just want you to know that I'm truly sorry for what I did. I love you."

Noor turns around and leaves the room quickly, never sparing Liesel one last glance.

_Scoria Primer, 18_

_District 2 Female_

"Good. Good."

Scoria doesn't bother to look up. There's no point in trying to meet her father's eyes—she hasn't been able to ever since the Favio-incident. Despite how long it's been since the "incident", the wound is still fresh. It's not like Scoria knows how to bandage something like this.

"I suppose we'll see you back in here in…two weeks, shall we say?"

"Of course," Scoria replies emotionlessly. It's not like she knows what emotion is anymore, anyway.

"Less, if you can manage it."

"Of course," Scoria repeats, staring blankly at the ground. She's just tired. Tired of everything.

"Well, goodbye for now, then," her father finishes. Scoria watches his feet disappear from her view, wondering if she'll ever see those black boots again. It's not that she cares. As soon as she can get the chance, he'll be gone. They can't prosecute a Victor, especially not one with the popularity that Scoria expects she'll gain. Careers usually have that kind of popularity.

Now, the weird ones don't. The ones who aren't supposed to be there don't.

But, Scoria figures that an exception will be made for Wonder Hammerfort.

Scoria has seen the last Quarter Quell so many times that she practically has Macy Barker's interview memorized. Of course, that means she remembers Wake Hammerfort. She was the kind of Career that everyone _knows_ should realistically have won, but somehow didn't.

Now that scares Scoria. Not the fact that, if that were her, it would make her dead. It's been a long, long time since Scoria has feared death. No, she doesn't want to fail.

She _knows_ that she is the "perfect Victor". Beautiful, skilled, disciplined to the T. She is the tribute that everyone will place their bets on, and she's not saying that because of her ego. Sure, she hasn't seen the other Careers yet. But if Wonder is anything to go off of, the Capitolites will be predicting her Victory.

It feels good. It feels like, for once in her life, something is going right. But, at the same time, she doesn't _want _to be the person everyone projects to win. She's seen the statistics. The one who everyone bets on almost never wins. After all, no one likes a predictable ending, and Scoria coming out on top is definitely predictable.

That doesn't stop it from being plausible. Winning the Hunger Game is all Scoria has worked toward since she was a toddler. She will be _damned_ if she loses her chance to fix everything.

Well, not everything.

Some things just can't be fixed, but Scoria hopes that she can makes amends.

No matter what she does once she escapes the arena, she can't be prosecuted. As long as it can't be considered "treasonous", she's home free. All she has to do is get out alive. She knows it will be easier said than done, and the last thing she wants to do is get cocky. Pride is fine, in moderation. Too much of it is what lead to the downfall of so many tributes, and Scoria refuses to be added to that roster.

If she can keep her head on straight, this will be so much easier. It doesn't matter how many people she has to kill. It doesn't matter how much blood she sees. It doesn't matter what she has to do. After all, Scoria has already done the unthinkable. What's it to do it again?

Silence has fallen over the room, laying thick like a blanket over Scoria as she takes a seat in one of the chintz chairs. She can't help but think of another person who should be here to say goodbye to her. But, of course, he isn't here.

It's the only certain comfort that Scoria can cling to: if she dies—and it truly is a big if—he will be waiting for. Either that or Scoria will go to hell, which is a place that Favio certainly isn't. Maybe it isn't a certain comfort at all, but it makes her feel better. Small comfort is better than no comfort.

Scoria doesn't like to feel uncertain. For her whole life, the one constant has been the looming threat of the Hunger Games. And now that she's here, having sealed her fate to perhaps certain death and perhaps certain Victory, she doesn't really know what to do next. All her father ever told her was to volunteer for the Hunger Games. He never said a word of what to do afterward, and frankly, no one at the Academy did either.

All she knows is what _not_ to do. Which is useful, to some extent. It is, of course, nice to know that making friends or falling in love is most likely a poor decision, but Scoria definitely could have figured that out for herself. Any person with half of a brain could.

Still, Scoria never realized just how uncertain her future is until now. Now that she completed the one thing she was always told to do, she isn't exactly sure what to do next. Go in the Games, obviously. But then what? Kill people, of course. That is the extent of what she was told to do.

Volunteer.

Go in the Games.

Kill some people.

Come on home.

_Sounds easier said than done,_ Scoria decides, shifting uncomfortably in her chair.

No one ever said winning the Hunger Games was easy. But what about Scoria's life has been easy?

_Lana Meadows, 14_

_District 3 Female_

Well, she certainly won't be writing that essay.

If there is one good thing about Lana's entire situation, it's that. At least, while Lana is away in the Capitol, being groomed for slaughter, everyone back home will be writing essays.

That's good, right?

Lana certainly got the larger of the two evils, but she can handle it. She's a fighter. She will not stop until Victory is hers, even if it's the last thing she does. She's just a kid, with a life she'd still like to live. She's ready to fight for that life, no matter what she has to do to get there.

How hard can it be? It's just…just killing some kids in a televised death match. That's…fine. Perfectly doable. Totally fine to expect a fourteen-year-old to do it.

"Lana, you had better come back to us." Her father's stern voice is almost welcome as Lana stands wrapped in his arms. She wishes he would never have to let go.

"I will," Lana says, her voice surprisingly firm and level. "I swear it."

"We can't lose you," her mother adds.

"I know," Lana says, exhaling a deep breath. "I promise I'll come back. I'll fight tooth and nail and…and I'll be back soon. I promise."

Lana steps out of her father's arms, wondering if, perhaps, this is the last time she'll ever speak to them. Will the nation soon know about her family? Will she survive long enough for Panem to know their names? Or will she fall in the bloodbath? It doesn't matter, she supposes. After all, twenty-fourth place is just as dead as second.

"I don't want you to go!" Rosie cries, throwing herself into Lana's arms and clinging onto for dear life, as if she could save Lana from the fate she has been condemned to. "Please! Can't you stay here?"

"I'd love to," Lana says, slowly rubbing Rosie's back. "But I really don't have a choice."

"I-I know," Rosie mumbles, burying her face into Lana's chest. "I j-just wish you didn't have to go…"

"I do too," Lana says solemnly. "I do too."

Lana wishes more than anything else that in this moment, time could stop. That she could spend an eternity with her family, that they would never have to leave, that she never would have been Reaped in the first place.

But time doesn't stop. Time stops for no one, for no reason, and it certainly won't make an exception for Lana. So, before she knows it, before she's ready to accept it, a Peacekeeper slams open the door and drags her family away from her. Lana stares at the door long after it closes, wishing that she could just tear it open and run after her family. She wishes that she could beg them to stay, that she could turn back the clock and see if she did something wrong.

Marta comes and goes, leaving Lana feeling only more melancholy than before. She finds herself feeling almost jealous as she watches Marta's back retreat from the room. Marta walks free. Lana does not. Lana could be dead in less than two weeks.

She drifts over to the window and sits on the ledge. The people of District 3 pass by below, no one sparing her an extra glance. She spots a group of kids who are in her math class sitting on the curb in a clump. Are they thinking of her? Are they wondering how she will fare in the Hunger Games? Or are they just grateful that it's her and not them?

Will they go into math tomorrow and realize that she isn't there anymore? Are they aware of just how lucky they are?

Because they are lucky. Those kids have no clue how lucky they are to be out there. It could be one of them sitting in Lana's place, having said goodbye to their family friends for possibly the last time. Had the escort pulled out a slip an inch to the left, it could have been one of them.

Do they realize that it was the girl who sits next to them in science that is now marked for slaughter? Do they know that Lana is sitting here, preparing to win or die trying, while they sit by and feel relieved that it wasn't them? Do they realize that it _could have been them_?

Do they have any _clue_ just how _lucky _they really are?

Lana sincerely doubts it.

She doubts that anyone across all of District 3 is thinking of her. They'll all have marked her as a bloodbath, someone to fall immediately. Surely all anyone is thinking about is how relieved they are that isn't them. After all, the districts only start caring about their tributes once they get so far in the Games, and for all Lana knows, that might never happen to her.

After all, chances are, she's going to die. It doesn't stop her giving her all towards Victory, but she could fight and fight and fight and still die.

But Lana will fight, and she will fight, and she will fight. She doesn't care who she has to kill, who has to die, who she has to cut through to get home. Because she will get home, damnit!

Victory is not yet hers, but goddammit, it will be. She doesn't have to be a hero to make it home. So many Victors were some of the worst people in the world, and as long as Lana can avoid sinking that low, she can get home. And once she does, everything will go back to the way it was. She'll be back to writing essays in no time.

_Eris Rowan, 13_

_District 7 Female_

"Oh, Eris." Erato shakes her head, her eyes crinkled with regret and sadness. "Why would you do it?"

Their father lays a hand on Erato's shoulder, his head cocked slightly to the side as if he's looking at Eris in a new light.

Eris shrugs, partially unsure herself. "I already ruined your life once. I didn't want to let it happen again."

"You never ruined my life," Erato assures her, but Eris has a hard time believing her. After all, if it weren't for Eris's stupidity and recklessness, Erato would be standing beside her, not sitting. "I promise that I am perfectly happy as is."

"That being so," Eris says, staring at her shoulder like its done her great personal wrong. "I couldn't let you go into the arena. You'd be dead in two seconds flat! You'd never even get off the launch plate. Me, on the other hand…I can make it. And if I don't…well, I promise I'll be fine. If Macy Barker could do, why can't I?"

"That's different and you know it," Erato says seriously, her voice fast and firm. "I can't fathom you going up against highly-trained, eighteen-year-old Careers."

"They'll have to catch me first," Eris says proudly. "And they'll have to see me! I'll be in the—" her voices cracks. "trees."

"There might not be trees, Eris!" Erato exclaims, making Erebus jump from beside them. "There might be sand, or frozen ponds, or—or—or—"

"I got this, Erato!" Eris says loudly, looking up to her father. "You believe me, don't you? That I can win?"

For a long, dreadful moment, Eris thinks he's going to say no. "Of course I do, honey."

_As if you even still remember my name_, a small part of Eris thinks bitterly.

"And when I do, you won't have to work so much," Eris says, pointing to her father. "and you two can just go to school." She moves her finger toward Erebus and Erato. "And, if I don't come back, that's one less mouth to feed. I wasn't doing anything but weighing you guys down, anyways!" A slightly-hysterical laugh bubbles out of Eris's mouth. It's as if the weight of what she's done is slowly pressuring in on her neck and her shoulders, pushing her further and further toward the ground.

But she doesn't regret it. She doesn't regret it.

What is she doing for her family except for sucking up money? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She doesn't work. She doesn't bring in anything. She just takes and doesn't give back.

Well, she's giving back now. She's giving back with her life in exchange for Erato's, who actually provides the family with Caps to put food on the table.

With one last hurried "I love you" and a promise to return home, her family is dragged from the room.

Eris stands in the center of the room with her arms crossed across her chest, staring down at her shoes with a stormy expression on her face.

It only takes a few moments for Vera to burst into the room and wrap Eris in a hug. "I'm going to miss you so much," she says into Eris's hair as Eris awkwardly pats her back.

"Hey, I'll be back," Eris says, her voice as level as she possibly can make it. "Promise. Heh."

"You'd better," Vera says, still not letting go of Eris. "That was a brave thing you did, volunteering for Erato like you did."

Eris shrugs and pulls out of the hug. "It's the least I could do after paralyzing her."

Vera glances at the ground. "No one blames you for it."

"Well, they should," Eris says matter-of-factly. "It is, after all, my fault. I'm just paying back for what I did."

"I don't think that it equates to volunteering to replace someone in a death match at thirteen-years-old, Eris," Vera says quietly. "I really don't."

"Well, I do," Eris says in the same tone. "Besides, I can _totally_ win this thing. Trust me. It's in the bag. I got this."

Vera shifts on her feet for a moment. "Eris…just be careful out there, okay? None of us want you to die."

"I don't want to die either!" Eris exclaims. "Nobody does! But it's better me than Erato, right?"

"…is it?" Vera asks.

"Of course it is!" Eris cries defensively. "Erato deserves the world, Vera! After what I've done to her, this is the least I can do to pay her back! Erato deserves to live, deserves to be successful, to grow old! And if I have to die for that to happen, then so be it."

Vera seems practically stunned into silence.

The only thing Eris feels is anger. Anger at Vera, for attacking her reason to volunteer. Angry at herself, for letting any of this happen. Angry at gravity, for pulling Erato down with her. Angry at the trees, for simply existing. Angry at the world, for everything.

But how can Vera say that Eris is wrong to volunteer for Erato, even if Erato doesn't want it? She saved Erato's life, only after ruining! Eris has every right to volunteer to take Erato's place!

Who cares if she dies? Erato won't be dead. Erebus won't be dead. Hell, even her father won't be dead.

Even if Eris is, at least Erato will get to live her life.

**A/N: This chapter is ten-ish days late! Would you look at me, being amazing at updating like a normal human being? **

**Also, does anyone think that seventeen-ish pre-games chapters is too many? Because that's what I have planned and even if you do, I'm not going back on it. **

**1\. Saddest goodbye?**

**2\. Easiest goodbye?**

**3\. Which of these five tributes is your favorite?**

**4\. Which of these fives tributes is your least favorite?**

**Random Question: have you figured out who Lanai needs to get on a train yet? Here, I'll give you a hint: it's not Ezra, but it is someone from one of my past stories. **

**So, next up is the train rides, where the shit really starts to go down. I, for one, am really excited to get into the pre-games, even if I'm dreading writing more training days. **

**-Amanda**


	18. Tick Tock Goes the Clock

_Jayce Dotter, 18_

_District 6 Female_

It's a look of horror and nothing else on Jayce's face when she catches sight of the volunteer from District 12.

Ishtar Marmaduke, the girl she used to love, stands frozen on screen as Jayce hurriedly pauses it, praying to any deity who might be listening to say it isn't so. Her hand slowly trails down the T.V. screen, her eyes crinkling at the sight of her. A thousand happy kisses, whispers of love and bounds of laughter spring through her mind at the mere thought of Ishtar.

How could she have been so _stupid_? How could she not have foreseen this? Of course Ishtar was going to volunteer! She's Ishtar, for crying out loud! And Jayce had really convinced herself that even Ishtar isn't stupid enough to volunteer.

It's all just become such a big mess, hasn't it? Everything was ruined so quickly. With that one little slip of paper in the escort's hand, Jayce's entire life has been ruined.

See, that's a strange thought. That an entire life can be derailed so quickly, so thoughtlessly, with a single movement.

_It's sort of like murder_, Jayce muses as she stares disbelievingly at Ishtar's face, the face of the girl she used to love. _Lives can be snuffed out just as quickly as they can be destroyed._

"The fuck is wrong with you?" comes a snide voice from across the room. Jayce looks up to see Kasumi staring at her with one eyebrow piqued and irritation written all over her face. "You're staring at that screen like it's the last man in Panem."

"Oh," Jayce says quietly. "It's…nothing."

"Ooh-kay," Kasumi says slowly and disbelievingly. "So, I'll be mentoring you, and Dixie's taking your district partner. Unless you'd like to do it as one with Larch…?"

"I'd prefer not to," Jayce says. Something about Larch just rubs her the wrong way. Maybe it's his gaunt face. Maybe it's his quiet demeanor. Maybe it's just the fact that they're both stuck in a death match together. Maybe it's just that Jayce has suddenly been thrown into a tornado, spinning around and around and around until her head pounds and her vision blurs. Maybe it's how little he talks.

"That's what I thought," Kasumi says. "So, are you going to tell me how you know District 12 girl-o or…?"

Jayce remains silent, still staring at Ishtar's frozen face on screen. God, she used to look at that girl like she held the world. "I used to live in District 12."

"Did you now," Kasumi deadpans, sounding about as bored as any human being ever could. "I take it someone in your family is smart, then?"

"My father," Jayce dutifully answers, her voice still low and mournful. "Ishtar and I were…together, until I moved to 6. We promised each other that when we turned eighteen, we'd both volunteer. Then we could be together again. It sounded like a great idea at the time, but now…it sounds like something only a crazy person would go through with." Was she ever that crazy? Did she ever really think she would volunteer to be reunited with someone?

…would she ever do it for Drew?

Well, maybe. She loves Drew. But love can only get you so far.

But…Ishtar loves her. And she used to love Ishtar. She fell out of love, but it's too late to change the past.

"It certainly does," agrees Kasumi as she flops down in one of the armchairs by the T.V. "I take it you weren't planning to go through with it."

"Of course not," Jayce says in a tone that suggests it would be suicide. In all fairness, it is. "But Ishtar clearly did."

"Must have a death wish," Kasumi says, turning her nose up to the girl on the screen.

"She's just lovesick," Jayce says miserably. "And once, I was too. But…things change." Her eyes dart toward the floor for a fraction of a second before she brings her gaze back up to Kasumi's face.

She always knew Ishtar was stubborn, but she just didn't know how much until now. Ishtar has always been obsessive, but Jayce didn't think she could stay in love for so long without even hearing from Jayce.

"Understandably," Kasumi agrees. "Let me tell you something, Jayce…I don't care if you love Ishtar or not. I don't care if you just hate her guts."

"Okay?" Jayce says uncertainly, wondering where exactly Kasumi is going with this.

"But that kind of story? Gosh, the Capitol will go _mad_ for it. The star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet split up and still pining for each other to this day? You'll be the most popular tributes out of the entire crop," Kasumi says, triumphantly crossing her arms across her chest.

"Being popular doesn't equate to Victory," Jayce says, looking skeptically at her mentor.

"I mean, yeah, but it gets you halfway there," says Kasumi. "See, the Capitol doesn't want a boring Victor. They want someone with a story to tell, someone to root for. Do you have any idea how many people will root for you to if you play your cards right? Imagine it. The lovers from 12 and 6, the two districts with the least amount of Victors, have volunteered to be in each other's arms once more. It's a story! It's a narrative, Jayce! You'll have people _begging_ to sponsor you."

"Sponsors change nothing," Jayce says seriously.

"Sponsors change everything," Kasumi replies. "Do you know how many tributes have won because of sponsors? And you know how you get sponsors?"

"By getting people to—"

"By getting people to like you!" Kasumi says loudly. "Romance sells. And the Capitolites have the most amount of money to spend."

Jayce glances at Kasumi before she un-pauses the T.V. and allows the recaps to continue. Alistair and Orion start blathering on about a volunteer from District 12, what a sight! "It's not going to work."

Kasumi shrugs again, getting to her feet and heading toward the minibar. "You'll never know until you give it a shot. What do you have to lose?"

_A lot,_ Jayce thinks. After all, she stands to lose it all. Her future. Drew. Her entire life, because of one little slip that happened to be chosen out of thousands.

Kasumi starts to pour herself a drink. Jayce watches her move for a moment before she says, "Are you even legal to drink?"

"Don't see anyone telling me not to," Kasumi answers as she scrutinizes the amount of alcohol in her glass. "'Sides, a drink or two always helps me figure out how to mentor people better. Let me tell you about this one time—"

"I'm good," Jayce says, setting down the remote and making her way toward the door. "Let me know if that alcohol gives you any brilliant idea." She pulls open the door and starts down the hallway, only to be interrupted by a shout from Kasumi.

"Your room's that way!"

Jayce grumbles something unintelligible under her breath and turns around.

_Shad Marcum, 18_

_District 1 Male_

Shad has never been angrier.

Literally. Never once in his life has Shad wanted to stab something than he does now. Preferably a human being, but he's flexible. He'd settle for a wall, or a pillow, or maybe even his district partner.

He cannot _fucking _believe the nerve of Calista Abbey! She came seventh! _Seventh_! She's not even the reserve volunteer! She has no right, no reason, no fucking anything to do with the Hunger Games! She should have just gone home like everyone else and accepted that she doesn't get to be the famous one! She's not strong enough, skilled enough, talented enough to win the Hunger Games!

His entire Hunger Games experience is going to be ruined because that bitch decided to volunteer! Shad was prepared to deal with Silvera, or Nephrite, or even someone like Raediance, yet here Calista stands—or sits, rather—in a plush chintz chair on her way to the Capitol. She doesn't deserve it. Has she worked her ass off to be as amazing as Shad is? No! Has she spent ever day of her life making sure that no one forgets who the real Victor is? No! She's done absolutely nothing aside from ruin Shad's Hunger Games.

This is supposed to be one of the best days of Shad's life. It's the day he volunteers, the day he starts on his way to the Capitol, on his way to the future! He's about to a Victor! He's about to have his name emblazoned on a fountain for all of posterity to see! All Calista will have is a lifeless gravestone beside another hundred-thousand identical gravestones. That's where she belongs anyways.

And Calista Abbey has ruined all of that! His blood is practically boiling in his veins as he sits here, stewing angrily beside Calista and their mentors.

At least Calista agreed to take the crazy one.

Shad doubts he'll need much of a mentor, but it's nice to know that he won't have to spend any more time than necessary around both Calista and Divinity. One of them is awful. Both of them is enough to do his head in.

Besides, the first chance he gets, Calista will be dead. By his hand, of course. And if someone takes that kill from him…well, they'll be dead too. He'll kill anyone who gets in the way. He has to show Calista who the boss is. Who the real Victor is in this equation. Shad has never been the best at math—who needs number when he can kill quicker than anyone this side of Panem?—but this is one problem that he can solve in an instant.

Calista Abbey is one person who stands up to Shad. Shad is used to a certain way of living, and that way involves using anyone who stands in his way as a doormat. Calista Abbey does not bend to his will, much like her annoying friends and ditzy comrades. But, she'll be dead soon enough, and Shad will have his name on a fountain for all of eternity.

"So, shall we get started?" Neapolitan proposes, looking between Shad and Calista uncertainly. "…is there anything we should know about you two? The way you're looking at each other makes me think you'd like it if the other were dead."

"No," Calista says, not tearing her gaze away from Shad's. "We just don't like each other."

"Right," Neapolitan says, his tone indicating that this is anything but right. Slowly he looks up to meet Shad's eyes, carefully raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips. "Great."

"So…alone, then?" Divinity asks, looking rather uncomfortable as well.

"Obviously," Shad says, rolling his eyes.

The silence that fills the room is beyond uncomfortable, the tension in the air so thick you could puncture it with a knife. However, the only person who doesn't manage to feel uncomfortable is Shad. He simply sits there in his chair, feeling intensely superior to just about everyone around him.

After a long few moments, Neapolitan starts drumming his hands on his legs and says, "So, Shad, shall we head to another car to discuss strategies?"

Shad nods sharply once and gets to his feet. He follows Neapolitan out of the car, making sure to throw a glare at Calista and Divinity before they disappear from his view.

"You were the chosen volunteer, yes?" Neapolitan asks as they make their way down the hallway.

"Of course I was," Shad says, affronted at the notion that Neapolitan may have thought he wasn't chosen for this.

"That always helps," Neapolitan replies. "What's your main weapon?"

"Spears," Shad says off-handedly. "But I'm good with anything you put in my hands."

Neapolitan nods, seeming pleased. He leads Shad into a separate room and takes a seat.

Shad remains standing.

"How do I become the leader of the Careers?" Shad asks. It's really the only question he has been unsure of the answer to. It's rare that the District 1 male becomes the leader of the Careers. That usually falls to one of the District 2s. Shad, however, has never been one to cater to statistics. If he becomes the leader of the Career pack, it will just be one more thing they can stamp his name in the history books for. That way people will remember him, and he won't just be one of the volunteers that Court makes an example of. If he wins, no one will be able to laugh at him for making mistakes, and no one can learn from what he did if he wins. He has to win. He has to win. He has to _win_.

"Slow down," Neapolitan says. "Being the leader of the Careers isn't always a good thing, Shad. The Career pack, as of late, has a tendency to be rather volatile. Before you decide you want to take up the helm, at least take a look at what you're up against."

"Whatever," Shad says. As if he doesn't know that the Careers often hate each other! He's watched the last decade of Games so many times he practically has them memorized! So what if the Careers don't like each other? It's not like they're all going to be best friends and sing songs while holding hands and murdering children!

The Careers pack have been worse in the past few years; in the Quell, it was a seething hotbed of twelve-year-old angst. The year after they, there wasn't even a true Career pack. It was just two factions that wanted to kill each other at the earliest convenience. Last year, it was nothing but a pack of trained kids whose only goal in life was to kill Divinity Faust, and look how that turned out! Divinity is in the next room over, and the Careers are dead in the ground!

Shad _can_ see where Neapolitan is coming from, but he also doesn't care. He's going to be the leader of the Careers no matter what. "I don't care who is a part of the Careers and who isn't. I just want to know how to ensure I am the leader."

Neapolitan sighs and says, "Look, Shad, sometimes leading the Career isn't the best course of action. Becoming the leader puts you in the spotlight, and sometimes staying unnoticed is the best option—"

"I don't want to be unnoticed!" Shad cries. The last thing Shad wants in this world is to be anything but the focus of everyone's attention. If he wanted to blend into the background, he would have done it already! "I'm going to be the leader of the Careers, because I'm the best choice for the job. I'm going to be the Victor, because it's all I've ever trained for!" He roars the last sentence right in Neapolitan's face, angry that anyone would ever tell him that his plan isn't the best plan.

"Shad, please," Neapolitan says. "You can still survive the Hunger Games without being the leader of the Careers."

"You don't understand," Shad says, dropping into a chair and leaning towards Neapolitan's face. "I can't just win the Hunger Games. I have to do something memorable while winning the Hunger Games. I don't want to just be another Victor from 1. I have to be _the_ Victor from 1."

Neapolitan continues to look lost and little bit skeptical, so Shad plows on. "I have to be the Victor that they'll talk about a century down the road. I have to be the one who is remembered by everyone. I have to be memorable! If I'm just another Victor…" Shad trails off, unsure of where he was going with this. "I have to win!"

"And I understand that, Shad," Neapolitan amends. "But isn't surviving enough? Why go out of your way to do intensely risky things if you could just live?"

"If I just win, no one will care!" Shad all but shouts. "I don't want to just be another name on a fountain, another Career volunteer who no one cares about!"

Why doesn't Neapolitan get it? Being the winner is not enough. In order for Shad to prove himself, to prove how amazing he is to the world, he has to be memorable. He has to be _the_ Victor in order to remind all of the other Victors where their place is. He's superior! He'll always be superior, but the only way to make everyone realize it is for him to win the Hunger Games!

"I think you'll realize quickly that surviving the Games doesn't solve all of your problems," Neapolitan says.

That makes Shad mad. That makes him really, really mad. Of course winning the Hunger Games will solve his problems! It's all he's wanted for so long! If he loses, what is he? But if he's a Victor, he'll be remembered forever! The Capitol will be singing his praises for decades to come, and future outliers will forever be reminded of their place. "Maybe it didn't for you. But it will for me."

"Suit yourself," Neapolitan says. "Now, what kind of survival skills do you know?"

_Ottilie Blackwell, 15_

_District 4 Female_

It feels good. It feels so, so good to be here. It feels like all of the pieces have finally fallen into place, and Ottilie is at last set on the track to greatness. Soon, her name will be stamped in the history books, on a fountain, and all over Panem. It will be _glorious_.

The train quickly leaves District 4 behind but Ottilie doesn't mind. She's been waiting for the day that she could finally leave that Panem-forsaken ocean behind. She's finally here, she's finally on the train, she's finally on her way to the history books.

"Uh, you okay?" Bayou asks from beside her, looking at her with raised eyebrows and an expression that insinuates he just watched her murder a small child. "You're starin' at that cupcake like it's the most amazin' thing in the world."

Ottilie just glares at him. "Oh, leave me alone, will you? I'm trying to revel in my Victory."

"I don' think you're the Victor quite yet," Bayou replies, still looking at her like she's gone completely insane. He starts to drum his fingers on the tabletop, making the silverware bounce and rattle. The sound grates on Ottilie's ears, only making her feel more unhappy with her district partner. Why couldn't she have gotten Lir Solomon? Hell, she'd take Crockett Montgomery over this Backwater idiot. After all, she'd like a district partner that comes with a brain attached.

"Something wrong with your ears?" Ottilie asks snidely. "I already knew Backwater kids couldn't read; I didn't know that you couldn't hear."

"Yeah—yeah, well, who'd ya have to fuck to get chosen as the, em, volunteer?" Bayou stammers, his eyes widening the moment the words leave his mouth. Ottilie can tell he regrets it, but she decides then and there that he doesn't get to regret it.

"Oh, please!" she shouts angrily, surging to her feet so quickly that her chair goes flying backwards and slams into the train-car wall. Bayou shrinks away from her, pushing his own chair back to more distance between them. "Like you have any room to talk! You're just some Backwater bitch! As if someone like _you_ could ever get legitimately chosen as the volunteer!"

For a split-second Bayou's eyes dart toward Ottilie's hands, his face betraying fear before anger conquers his emotions once more. "I, well, I—"

Before Bayou can say another word, the train car door opens and in walks Chance Rovaeny and Arthur Singlewave.

"Woah, woah, woah! What the _hell _is going on in here?" Chance yells, rushing forward and pushing both Bayou and Ottilie back. "Hey, hey, hey, put down the knife before someone gets stabbed." Once he seems satisfied that no murder is about to be committed, he takes a few steps back and returns to Arthur's side.

It's in this moment that Ottilie realizes that somewhere in her argument with Bayou, she picked up a steak knife. "You're a bit late to the party," Ottilie growls. "If you'd been a minute later, we'd have to Reap a new tribute."

"Wow, okay," Chance says, putting an arm around Arthur's shoulder. "That's a new one."

"I don't care," Ottilie snaps.

Chance extricates his arm from around Arthur's shoulders and makes his way around the table. "Okay, so, how about we _don't_ commit any unprecedented murders today?"

In response, Ottilie slams the steak knife into the table, sending the utensils laid out rattling around again.

"She ain't got a weapon, so at least there's that," Bayou says, getting out of his chair and walking around the table.

"So, Ottilie, how about you go somewhere else to cool down—" Chance starts, but Ottilie cuts over top of him.

"Oh, got fuck yourself," she snarls as she stalks over to the train car door. She rips it open and disappears down the hall, leaving her mentors and her district partner baffled behind her.

She honestly doesn't know where she's going, but she keeps going anyway. If anything, she's too stubborn to turn back around and have to admit that she went the wrong way.

Her feet carry her all the way to the back of the train. She sits on the curved benches, watching the world fly past outside the windows. She wonders how it will feel to sit here and watch Panem disappear from the perspective of a Victor. That's something she'll be soon. She's sure of it. If Backwater Bayou is anything to go off of…

Some small part of her tells her to stop being cocky. That winning the Hunger Games is not as easy as it sounds.

And maybe that part of her is right. Maybe that part of her is wrong. She'll never know until she's in the arena, and Orion Garnet is announcing her as the Victor of the One-Hundredth, Fifty-Third Annual Hunger Games.

Ottilie gets to her feet and turns on the T.V. that sits in the corner. If she's going to figure out how easy this game is going to be to win, she needs to start now.

District 1, she decides, may pose her some difficulty. Careers are different, though. Careers are always going to pose problems.

Only the girl from 2 seems like a threat, she concludes. Honestly, if anyone doesn't deem that boy to be a bloodbath, they're kidding themselves.

She skips District 3 after taking one look at the tributes; both obvious bloodbaths, of course. She fast forwards through District 4, not wanting to look at Bayou's face again. District 5 seems worthy of little note as well, but she does mentally flag the girl as a possible threat. Both eighteen-year-olds from 6, despite neither of them seeming to be much of anything. The first volunteer from an outer district happens to be a thirteen-year-old girl, which nearly makes Ottilie burst out laughing.

Maybe she was right. Maybe this is going to be a clean sweep through to Victory.

District 8 yields two twelve-year-olds, but something about the boy seems off to Ottilie. She isn't sure what it is about him, but she flags him as a potential threat as well. The District 9 male also makes her feel slightly nervous; she mentally notes him as a possible issue if his score is high enough. She finds herself questioning the boy from 10, but the girl from 10 looks practically hungover. _If there is anyone I need to look out for, it's the boy from 11_, Ottilie decides, mentally placing the largest red flag over his head. A volunteer for 12 can never be overlooked, but, at the same time, she looks like nothing to be worried around.

"So."

Ottilie's head snaps up as she launches to her feet in a second, whirling around to find herself staring at Arthur Singlewave. "The hell do you want?"

"I'm your mentor, I guess," Arthur says, staring very pointedly out of the windows.

"I know."

"So, do you have something against Bayou or…"

"No," Ottilie snaps. "I just don't believe that a Backwater trainee could feasibly get chosen as the volunteer."

"You're, like, fifteen-years-old."

"Uh-huh, and more skilled than Backwater Bayou will ever be," Ottilie answers.

"Have you ever seen him fight?"

"No," Ottilie growls.

"Then how can you accurately say that you're better than him?" Arthur asks innocently. "And, trust me when I say this, you don't want to go into the arena with grudges against people, especially if they're for no reason."

"Like you would know."

"I'd say I know more than you do," Arthur says, shrugging. "After all, which one of us here has won the Hunger Games? You?"

"Not yet," Ottilie snaps testily. "God, why can't you just leave me alone? I'm trying to work on my strategy for getting there."

"That's what your mentor is for."

"Go to hell." Ottilie throws a sharp glare over her shoulder before she sits down once more, turning back to the T.V. She quickly rewinds the recaps.

"It's your funeral," Arthur says off-handedly as he disappears down the hallway, leaving Ottilie to do nothing but flip him off as he goes.

_Quinn Bayers, 17_

_District 11 Male_

"Are you okay with being mentored together?" Ashe asks him as they wait for Meadow and Brice. "I don't want to face this alone."

Quinn is slightly taken aback by her question. "Yeah. That's fine with me."

"Cool," Ashe says, sounding relieved.

Silence quickly stretches between them. Ashe starts tapping her hands on the table. "Have you met either of them? Meadow and Brice, I mean?"

"Oh," Quinn says. "No. Have you?"

Ashe shakes her head. "Never face-to-face."

This silence is only broken by the arrival of Meadow and Brice. "So, Quinn and Ashe, correct?" Meadow asks as she and Brice take a seat across from their tributes.

"Yes," Quinn says.

"So, Ashe, I'll be mentoring you, and Brice will be taking—" Meadow begins, but Ashe cuts over top of her.

"Actually, we'd like to be mentored together," she says confidently. "If that's alright with you."

"That's fine with us," Meadow says, sounding surprised. "Do you two know each other or…?"

"Oh, no," Ashe says immediately, taking the words right from Quinn's mouth. "I just…I don't want to face this alone."

Meadow nods before turning to Quinn. "So, Quinn, care to tell us why you volunteered?"

"Money," Quinn says with no plans to elaborate. Meadow doesn't need to know Quinn's life story, especially with how big of a sympathy line it is. He doesn't need the Capitol to think he's noble or brave or selfless. He isn't. He's just doing what anyone else would do to keep their family alive, even if it means he loses his life in the process. That's just the way it has to happen and Quinn knows that.

"What about money?" Brice suddenly blurts out. "Like, just the idea of Caps? Or do you need money to help feed your family? Is someone in your family deathly ill and you need money to get treatment? To get yourself out of debt? Oh! Are you a gambler? Or is someone in your family a gambler? Are you the breadwinner in your family or is it someone else? Do you even have a family, or are you an orphan? If you're an orphan, is that why you need money, so that you can get out of poverty? Or do you really want fame? Trust me, the fame isn't all that good—like, it actually kind of sucks and the mental scarring is probably worse. I just can't imagine why someone would volunteer, even for a noble reason like getting money for his starving family!"

"I just need money," Quinn repeats, not really having followed anything Brice said. Ashe, on the other hand, is staring at him like an alien come down to Panem. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"We can work with that," Meadow says amiably. "It might be easier to spin you some sponsors if you tell us _why_ you need money."

"My dad screwed me over," Quinn says. "I need money."

"Okay," Meadow says carefully. "What about you, Ashe? Got anything to help us spin you a story?"

"Well…no, not really," Ashe says, staring down at her lap. "My family is normal. We have enough money." After a moment, she looks up. "I'm smart, though."

"Intelligence is a good quality to have in the Games," Meadow agrees. "Quinn will already have sponsors on his side. An outlying volunteer never gets ignored, no matter what the reason they volunteered for. You're capable, you look strong, and I can imagine the ladies will be all over you."

Quinn purses his lips at the last one. It's not that he doesn't like being popular with the ladies. He'd just rather not be popular with the crazy Capitol ladies. Besides, the ones back home are prettier and more normal. "I suppose so."

"People sponsor the ones they think are attractive," Brice adds. "It's especially because they like to look at the ones who are hot for a longer time and will sponsor them lifesaving equipment so that they can look at the hot ones for longer because the Capitol values appearance over personality because if you're attractive you're going to make the higher-ups more money."

"And you, Ashe—intelligence is an important card to play, but it's not something you want to flaunt," Meadow says. "It's a hard choice between standing out and being ignored. On one hand, standing out gets you more sponsors and a bigger following. Having fans is especially useful—the Gamemakers will be less likely to kill you for being boring if you're popular with the crowds. On the other, being unnoticed during the pre-Games can lend you a hand in a different way. You won't be a target. If you're average, no one will go out of their way to kill you. But, we'll leave the decision up to you."

"Average," Ashe says.

"Stand out," Quinn says. "Even if I had a choice, I feel like it's a little late to try and be average."

"I agree," Meadow says. "So, Quinn, you're going to want to go for a high training score. That will put you even larger on the Capitolites' maps. Ashe, you're going to want to be in the four-to-six range. A score that's good, but not so good that you become a target."

It makes sense to Quinn; although training scores seem rather arbitrary to him, it makes sense that the Capitolites would want someone with a higher training score as their bet.

"Now, how do you two feel about allies?" Meadow asks.

"I want a big alliance," Ashe says. "Anyone else who is younger, if it's possible."

"And you, Quinn?"

Quinn considers it for a moment. On one hand, having trustworthy allies could save his life. There is strength in numbers as well. But Quinn knows that his fatal flaw is his loyalty to others. It's hard fought, but it's sorely won. He knows it's not easy for others to get to close to him, but once they do…well, he can't chance finding some to be loyal to and giving up his life for them. "No," he decides. "I'm happy going solo."

"Alright, then," Meadow says, nodding. "So, Ashe—what are you looking for in an ally?"

"Well, I guess I want someone younger," Ashe says. "Someone around my age or below."

"Shall we head to another room and look at the Recap?" Meadow proposes.

Ashe agrees, and they quickly vacate the train car, leaving Quinn sitting alone with Brice. "So…" Quinn says, shifting in his seat. "Do you have any advice for me?"

For a short moment, Brice seems to consider his words before he launches into a long tirade. "Well, if you're not going for allies, then keep to yourself during training because if someone asks for to ally and you say no that just makes you an enemy and having those in the Games is never helpful. Also avoid showing off any special skills you might have until you go into the Private sessions because you don't want everyone else to know you're good with a certain weapon until you have it in your hands and you're about to kill them in the Games. Oh! Keep your distance from your district partner because it's so much harder to kill someone when you know and they're from home but I know there's a taboo on killing your district partner but if that's what standing between you and Victory I don't think anyone cares about a taboo."

"Well…um, alright, then. Thanks, I guess," Quinn says, trying to decipher everything Brice said. He talked a lot, and really fast, and Quinn doesn't quite want to admit that he didn't pick up most of it. "Well, I'm going to go watch the recap in my room and see if I want to reconsider my decision to have no allies. I'll see you for dinner."

Brice starts rambling some long goodbye, but Quinn leaves the room before he hears most of it.

_Lyndie Franklin, 12_

_District 8 Female_

_Tick, tock. _

The clock on the wall of Lyndie's room is driving her mad. Every little second that ticks away is one less that she has to spend in Panem. She watches the little red hand make its way around and around and around the clock face, over and over and over again as it ticks away the moments left in Lyndie's short little life.

_Tick, tock. _

No matter how much Lyndie wills it to do so, the clock doesn't stop moving. The hands don't freeze in place and the little ticks don't stop coming.

_Tick, tock. _

Every moment that Lyndie spends staring at the clock, willing it to stop, is one less moment she has to live.

_Tick, tock. _

But she has the grace of God on her side. She hasn't quite decided if that puts her at a disadvantage or not. Con: the Capitol views religion as a danger to their carefully cultivated society. Pro: she's not sure what's in God's will, but she knows that it will turn out okay. Whether it be that she dies or not remains to be seen, but whatever happens, Lyndie knows it will turn okay. She's been good. For the most part. She doubts she's done anything that will stop her from reaching God's arms when she does indeed pass on.

_Tick, tock. _

Lyndie gets off her bed and starts to pace the floor. She doesn't want to sit still, but she doesn't want to leave the relative safety of her supposed bedroom. So she paces. She stalks back and forth, back and forth, back and forth from end of the room to the other like a caged animal.

_Tick, tock. _

In some ways, she is a caged animal. She's like a sheep being led to the slaughterhouse, slowly being dragged away against her will. It's only a matter of time…

_Tick, tock. _

Lyndie sits crisscross on the floor and does something she hasn't done for a long, long time: she starts to sing. Her voice is quiet at first, a soft warbling sound that to any passerby would sound like nothing but humming. No one has ever accused Lyndie of being good at singing, but the sound of her own song is comforting. It reminds her of home; when her mother would sing lullabies to her and her brothers. But her voice is not her mother's, and it doesn't feel like home.

_Tick, tock. _

She continues to hum to herself, on the floor of her "bedroom" as her heart aches for home, for the soft voice of her mother, for the silly jokes of her father, for the squabbles and laughter and life of her brothers. She wants to go home, desperately aches for it, but she knows that she'll never see home again.

_Tick, tock. _

It's the only sound in the room. The incessant little ticking of the clock, as the hands make their endless journey around and around, never stopping, never ceasing to move. It quickly becomes the only sound to be heard in the room as Lyndie's humming slowly peters out. It just ticks and it ticks and it ticks.

_Tick, tock. _

No matter what she thinks, it always comes back to this. To the clock. To the ticking. To the little number of seconds Lyndie has left in this plain of existence. She has so little left to hold here her, barely any time to keep her grounded and alive.

_Tick, tock. _

At last Lyndie can take it no more and she springs up from the floor. She snatches the clock off the wall and claws at the screws. Finally they start to come out, and each time she successfully pulls one from the plastic, she chucks it across the room, hoping to never see it again.

_Tick, tock. _

Before long the clock lays in pieces and the second hands stops its incessant ticking. Lyndie lays back against her bedframe, satisfied, but the sound doesn't stop.

_Tick, tock. _

_Tick, tock. _

_Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock—_

Lyndie aggressively starts singing, just belting out lyrics to whatever song comes to her head first, trying to carry her voice loud enough to override the screaming of the clock in her head. Why won't it stop? When will the world stop reminding her of death? She knows she's going to die, for Heaven's sake!

_Tick. _

Lyndie gets to her feet and shuffles out of the room. She starts the hall, going in the direction that she can hear voices coming from.

_Tock._

Lyndie pauses in the hallway, staring out the windows at the slowly setting set. It rests on the horizon, bathing Panem in golden light. It's odd to see something so beautiful in light of so many awful things. If the fields of wheat that are blazing by her eyes are anything to go off of, they're likely passing through District 9. It's the first time Lyndie has ever seen anything but rows upon rows of gray buildings and muggy skies.

It's beautiful.

_Tick._

Lyndie turns and goes on her way.

_Tock. _

She walks fast, but her steps are unsure. She doesn't know where she's going, but she has to get there eventually. She turns a blind-eye to the sunset, ignoring the blazing colors and the fields of District 9 as she quickly paces up the train. After a while, when the sun is just barely peeking over the horizon and the sky has turned purple, Lyndie comes upon a pantry. She ducks inside and grabs a box of cookies off one of the shelves. With her prize held securely to her chest, Lyndie heads back down the train.

_Tick. _

By the time she reaches the room marked "female tribute", the sky is dark and the stars are out. She crunches on a couple of cookies before tossing the box onto the bed and leaving the room again. For once in her life, she feels like she can't sit still. The world is moving too fast and Lyndie doesn't know how to keep up with it.

_Tock. _

Eventually, she finds herself at the back of the train. She spots a ladder leading up to the roof and finds herself climbing it without even realizing she's doing it.

_Tick. _

_Stars are beautiful, _Lyndie decides as she stands on the roof of the train. Wind whips around her head, making her hair blow across her face, but Lyndie doesn't really mind. She lays back against the sleek metal of the roof and stares up at the sky. She likes to think that each of those stars represents a person. Perhaps all of the stars are the souls of the people of the districts who have died for no good reason. Perhaps they are the fallen tributes from the Hunger Games.

_Tock. _

Lyndie wonders if she'll become a star when she dies.

It doesn't sound like much of a way to spend eternity.

_Tick. _

She gazes at the stars for so long that her eyes start to burn. Stars aren't a thing in District 8. If you really squint, you might see them on a clear night. Most of the time they are virtually invisible. It's strange to see them to clearly for so long.

Lyndie slowly gets up and crawls back down the ladder, but she doesn't return to "Female Tribute"'s bedroom. She isn't sure if she wishes the door had her name on it or not. She's not "female tribute". She's Lyndie. Just Lyndie.

She wanders up and down the train, her bare feet cold against the hardwood floors. She passes by the rooms of her mentors, of her district partner, of the escort, and it seems as if none of them are awake. She doesn't mind being alone, but right now, she would give anything to have one more moment with her family.

_Wonder Hammerfort, 12_

_District 2 Male_

_**(TW for mention of suicide attempts)**_

_They can't execute a Victor, they can't execute a Victor, they can't execute a Victor, they can't execute a Victor, they can't execute a Victor_, Wonder tells himself as he paces up and down the train with the rain of a summer storm lashing the windows. The words repeat over and over like a mantra, a broken record that refuses to stop playing. He knows that it's true, that unless he commits an act of high treason there's nothing the Capitol can do about him.

He just has to win, and everything will be okay.

He just has to win, and everything will be okay.

He just has to win, and everything will be okay.

"I just have to win, and everything will be okay," Wonder says aloud, not even realizing that he started speaking. "I just have to win, and everything will be okay. I just have to—"

"The hell are you doing? It's five a.m."

Wonder's head snaps up, suddenly finding himself staring at his district partner, who is semi-casually leaning against the doorway to her bedroom. For whatever reason, despite it being the middle of the night, she is dressed as if she's about to work out. "I—I, uh…"

Scoria stares expectantly at him for a moment as if waiting for him to continue.

"I…just…nothing," Wonder mumbles, his voice barely audible over the pouring rain.

"Who are you, exactly?" Scoria asks.

The question takes Wonder by surprise. "What…what do you mean?"

"I remember Wake Hammerfort," Scoria says.

"Don't say her name," Wonder growls.

"I remember Wake Hammerfort," Scoria repeats, her voice lower and more annoyed. "What's the story there?"

Wonder collects his words for a moment. "It's nothing you should be concerned with."

"So are you a Career?"

"No," Wonder says. He's never been to the Academy. It always enticed Wake, but Wonder sees enough carnage at home.

"Then why did you volunteer?"

"Escape," Wonder says. "I'm probably going to die either way, but at least here I have a chance to earn a pardon and fix things." He just has to win, and everything will be okay.

"The hell are you talking about?" Scoria demands, sounding rather done with this conversation.

"It's nothing you should be concerned with," Wonder repeats, crossing his arms across his chest. "You can go back to sleep now, or whatever you were doing at five a.m."

Scoria glares at him, seeming to be considering slamming the door in his face and going back to doing whatever she was doing. After a moment of silence, her glare deepens and she says, "Just stay out of my way. I don't need you; you don't need me. Let's just agree to keep our distance."

"Sounds good to me," Wonder says, shrugging. It's not like she's wrong. They don't need each other. Wonder isn't sure who was supposed to be the male volunteer this year, but he can bet that Scoria would have kept her distance from him as well. Neither of them need any distractions from their goal.

"Great," Scoria says, the word half cutoff by her slamming the door of her bedroom.

Wonder starts to pace up again. He walks until the sun starts to peek through the crowds and the mountains surrounding the Capitol are sitting on the horizon. He wonders what is waiting for him beyond those mountains. Will the Capitol like him? Or will they hate him, for being a so-called "criminal" and volunteering to escape his fate?

Wonder has never liked to feel unsure. He likes to have certainty in his life, but there never is. For the longest time, the only thing in his life that was constant and stagnant was Wake, and look where she ended up. Then the constant became Yoldan, and look where he ended up. Another constant was Rupert, and look where _he_ ended up. Who's next to die in his life? Jilda? Him?

Maybe it is him who will die next. After all, he is on a train headed for the Hunger Games.

Fate has never been kind to Wonder, has it? It has rung him out like a wet towel, again and again and again, before throwing him in the trash and pulling him out again. Wonder likes to think he's a fighter, but after so many attempts to take his own life…what kind of fighter does that?

What kind of fighter runs from a fight?

Wonder is no fighter; he's well-aware that he has only been masquerading as one.

He just has to win, and everything will be okay.

Wonder heads down to the dining car, finding Will already seated inside. There's no food on the table, instead it being Will seated atop it. When he sees Wonder enter, he gives a half-hearted wave and says, "Hey. I get the feeling that you didn't sleep much last night. And did I hear you talking to Scoria a few hours ago?"

Wonder shrugs and glances over to the windows, finding the clouds have dissipated and sunlight is pouring down from the heavens. "I guess, yeah."

"You don't make much sense to me, Wonder," Will says, sliding off the table and making his way towards Wonder. He shies away from Will, taking a few steps backwards. "I get that you volunteered to escape execution. I get that. But I just don't see what else you have to gain from this."

"Everything," Wonder says. "At least, this way, I have a chance to survive."

"I get that," Will says, his voice slightly more serious and less tired. "But if I were in your situation…I think being dead might be better. If you win, all you're going to be is more traumatized."

Wonder stares at him for a long moment. "Whatever. I'll be fine."

"If you're certain," Will says, shrugging.

"I'm going to be mentored separately," Wonder says suddenly.

"Okay? Great?" Will says, seeming uncertain what Wonder is talking about. "Why? You hate Scoria or something?"

"No. We just don't need to associate with each other," Wonder says simply.

"Alright then," Will says, raising his eyebrows. "What about allies? What's your opinions on those?"

"Absolutely not," Wonder says immediately. The last thing he needs is allies. More people who can hurt him. More people who can turn out to be bad. More people who can betray him and his hard-earned trust. He doesn't need anyone after all. If he needed people, he wouldn't have agreed to keep his distance from Scoria. "I don't need help. I work best alone."

"Okay," Will says. "So, no allies, then. What else you got?"

"My sister," Wonder says. "I know she was extremely popular when she was in the Games. That will get me extra popularity points, right?"

"You make an excellent point," says Will, nodding. He sticks out his head to shake Wonder's and says, "I think you've got a fair chance at it, Wonder. You're young, which doesn't lend you any favors, but you'll be popular, and you've clearly got fight to you."

Wonder looks at Will's hand like it's a dead rat. After a moment, Will seems to realize that Wonder isn't going to shake it and he pulls it back.

_Will has no idea how wrong he is_, Wonder thinks. He's no fighter, but maybe he can become one.

**A/N: Welcome to arc-town, population Wonder, Quinn, Ottilie, Jayce, Lyndie and Shad!**

**1\. Which one of these POV tributes is your favorite?**

**2\. Which of one of the mentors showcased is your favorite?**

**3\. Which one of these POV tributes do you think is most likely to win? **

**Random Question: what did you eat for breakfast today?**

**My answer: we're going to back to actually random questions! And I didn't actually eat breakfast today. I don't have breakfast most of the time, especially on school days. **

**Next up is the Chariot Rides with Arthur!**

**-Amanda**


	19. Glitter and Gold

_Arthur Singlewave, 18_

_Victor of the 151__st__ Annual Hunger Games_

The likelihood of another District 4 Victor so soon has suddenly gone down exponentially. Arthur sees nothing wrong with Bayou, aside from serious prejudice back home. Ottilie, on the other hand—well, he's heard of Ottilie. He's heard of her because he's talked to the trainers at Faustus about her. She's all Aran Delarosa would ever talk about—not because he was singing her praises, but because he was worried for her. Aran had never even mentioned a Bayou Hacksom.

"What do you think is going to happen this year?" Arthur asks Chance as they take their seats in the stands. "With Bayou and Ottilie, I mean?"

Chance shrugs. "Dunno. But I don't think we're going to be joined by another Victor anytime soon."

Arthur nods. "Agreed."

Their conversation falls flat after that, leaving Arthur sitting with nothing but his thoughts. He's only been gone a day, and he already misses being at home with Copper. He knows that last year was worse, because it was the first time he'd ever mentored, and nothing had changed. He'd come in with hope in his heart for his tributes and yet they died.

This year it's different. This year he's trying to be realistic. He's trying to go in with the idea that his tributes aren't going to survive. He's trying to come to terms with that, but it's easier said than done. It's hard to look Bayou and Ottilie in the eyes, give them advice on how to win, yet know that they are going to die.

It's harder with Bayou. Bayou, who is going in with clear hope for Victory but none of the cockiness that Ottilie has. Bayou, who has faced prejudice his whole life, yet would still face it even if he won. Bayou, who almost doesn't seem to know what he's gotten himself into.

Arthur wishes he could tell him what he's gotten himself into. He doesn't know if it would be worth it or not. Would Bayou turn out like Flourish, unable to see an outcome where winning is desirable? Or would he turn out even more determined to take Victory?

He's also unsure if he'll ever know. It's not worth it to ruin Bayou's chances since he doesn't know what Bayou wants. Would Bayou want Victory once he knows what Victory is like? Would Ottilie?

That's not even a question. Arthur doubts that anything could change Ottilie's mind about whether or not being a Victor is worth it. Not the trauma. Not the guilt of killing. Not being turned in a prostitute so the higher-ups can make more Caps. Not the endless tormenting from the Capitol as he's forced to relive his Games every year. Nothing could change her mind.

With Ottilie, it's easy. It's easy to look that girl in the eye and say she's not going to win. Ottilie is too cocky, to confident in her Victory. Arthur knows she's about to get slapped with one of the biggest reality checks in Hunger Games history. The Games are all about change, and Arthur bets that Ottilie will change the most.

For the worst or for the better remains to be seen.

Arthur is dragged from his thoughts by the sudden blaring of the Capitol anthem. The only thought that comes to his head is each anthem in the Games, a reminder that he somehow never ended up as a face in the sky. No one ever looked to the sky while the anthem played and saw Arthur staring back down at them. Even two years after the fact, that notion is still hard to believe. Arthur doesn't know if it's because he feels he doesn't deserve it, or it's because he doesn't know how he survived the arena.

The blaring of the trumpets once again forces him back to reality

The first chariot out is, of course, District 1. To say that their outfit is a shock is an understatement; Arthur has heard stories of ridiculous chariot costumes, but he's got to say, this one is a little bit out there.

Calista looks beyond uncomfortable, but Shad is loving it. Both of them are buck-naked and coated in sparkling gemstones of all shapes, sizes and colors. It's certainly an…interesting choice, Arthur has to say.

It's obvious to the crowd that Shad is perfectly content to stand in the chariot completely naked and showing off all of his lower jewels.

The next chariot carries Scoria and Wonder, dressed in camo uniforms. Both of them have hard, dark green helmets on their heads and dark-lensed sunglasses. They both hold green, (hopefully fake) guns.

Wonder is looking down, rigidly holding his weapon and staring off into space. Or, for all Arthur knows, he could be asleep standing up behind those darkened sunglasses.

Scoria seems confident and domineering, her arms holding the gun comfortably. She stares forward, nodding to the Capitolite crowd and looking the part of an army general.

District 3's chariot is half-blinding: Lana and Darwin are dressed in a shiny, silver, metallic dress and tux, respectively. Lana's light brown hair trails down her back, littered with specks of glitter and LED lights. Darwin wears a crown of bright, flashing lightbulbs.

Lana is grinning from ear-to-ear and waving excitedly to the crowd. Arthur notices that small LED lights have been attached to her fingernails as well. You have to go all in, he supposes.

Darwin looks slightly apprehensive to be in front of all of these people, and his waving is more hesitant and less pronounced than Lana's. His eyes are darting around, looking from face to face as if he might see someone he recognizes. Perhaps he's looking for Thalia and Rocket.

Arthur holds his breath as he catches sight of Ottilie and Bayou. They, too, appear slightly blinding. Ottilie is dressed in a tight, shimmery dress that shows off her curves and muscles beautifully. It shines with every color in the rainbow, the hues changing as she shifts her position. She stares ahead, cold and unfeeling, one hand on her hip and other resting on the front of the chariot.

Bayou, meanwhile, is giving the audience a half-hearted wave and nervous grin. Arthur would assume it's because he's shirtless and showing off his chest—and, shockingly, a few faint scars, reminiscent of something that Arthur might have to ask about later—but his lower half is, mercifully, covered. He's wearing shorts that are the same shimmery, rainbow fabric as Ottilie's, coupled with a belt made out of netting.

"Sponsors are gonna like that," Chance says, pointing to a shirtless Bayou and nodding.

Arthur keeps his gaze locked on the chariots.

District 5 is certainly…interesting, Arthur notes. From what he can understand, Sterne and Liesel are dressed as lamps, complete with two lampshades on top of their heads and lightbulbs shining to the sky. Liesel is wearing a blue dress vaguely shaped like the base of a lamp. Sterne wears a suit to match.

It certainly takes the cake as the worst outfit anybody has ever come up in the history of human existence. The only good part is that neither of Arthur's tributes are wearing it.

Liesel looks like she would like to murder her stylist if she had the chance. Sterne, on the other hand, seems to be extremely happy despite his awful outfit.

Jayce and Larch are dressed in astronaut suits. The white suits cover their entire bodies, with large helmets over their heads that block their faces from view so that Arthur can't even decipher which one is Jayce and which one is Larch.

Although, he can take a wild guess and say that Larch is one on the left, since he is significantly taller than Jayce.

Jayce is standing up straight, her posture perfect, her hands on her hips. It's impossible to read her expression, obviously, but Arthur gets the idea that she's feeling rather confident.

Larch, on the other hand, is slouched against the front of the chariot, his arms crossed over his chest.

It's clear to Arthur that neither of them are very pleased with their current predicament.

Eris and Mercury are dressed as bushes. They have large tufts of leaves on their heads and their entire bodies are covered with them. After a few moments, the leaves begin to change color, and then they fall off completely, reveling a light brown dress on Eris and a dark brown tux on Mercury.

Eris is grinning and laughing as the leaves blow away and get stuck in District 8's chariot, but Mercury looks extremely nervous and jumpy. His head keeps darting around as if he's expecting someone to jump out of the ground and stab him.

Lyndie and Navarro are dressed in a silvery dress and suit. However, upon closer inspection, Arthur realizes that they aren't silvery—they're white and covered in a thousand thimbles. They ring like bells as Lyndie shyly waves.

Meanwhile, in average twelve-year-old fashion, Navarro flips off the audience.

That gets Chance laughing raucously beside Arthur. Arthur, however, remains silent.

District 9 are dressed as bakers. They have on white aprons, flour in their hair, and large chefs' hats on their heads. They both hold metal trays with steaming cinnamon buns sitting on top.

Ainsley is laughing and brandishing her tray around as if offering the Capitolites a baked good, but Everett isn't nearly as into it. He waves a little bit, but he's subdued and looking down.

Afandina is dressed as a cow, but Tamarah is dressed as a butcher, which is extremely foreboding. Afandina has his arms crossed over his chest and looks intensely affronted, as if he thinks _he_ should be the butcher, not Tamarah.

Tamarah, however, is intensely into it, and keeps playfully whacking Afandina in the shoulder with her cleaver. It's obviously not real, and she's not hitting very hard, but it makes the Capitolites laugh.

Ashe and Quinn are dressed in a dress and suit covered in flowers. There are flowers sticking off of Quinn's shoulders and trails of sunflowers off of Ashe's back.

Ashe has a bright red flower crown on her head and daisies painted on her cheeks. She's grinning nervously and waving enthusiastically, albeit shyly.

Quinn looks more nervous than Ashe. Even from this distance, Arthur can see beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his face and that his hands are shaking from their position at the helm of the chariot.

District 12 are dressed as miners with bright red and orange overalls on. They both hold dark red pickaxes and have orange "coal dust" sprinkled through their hair. It's different, Arthur will give them that.

Ishtar's eyes are searching the crowd as if she's looking for someone. Other than that, she appears almost lost from where she's standing with her hands at her sides.

Geo, on the other hand, is staring ahead with a vacant look in his eyes. His hands are loosely resting on the front of the chariot. No matter how long Arthur stares at him, he never blinks.

"Welcome, tributes!" Graciela says into the microphone as the last chariot pulls to a stop. "Welcome, to the One-Hundredth, Fifty-Third Annual Hunger Games!"

The crowd roars as Graciela presses on. "We thank you for your sacrifice, your bravery and your courage in the face of danger. I wish you all the best of luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

_The odds are in no one's favor_, Arthur thinks moodily as he and Chance make their way out of the stands to meet Bayou and Ottilie.

Ottilie appears livid once again and Bayou has his arms wrapped around his chest. They end up in an elevator with the team from District 9, which leads to some intense death glares between Ottilie and Everett. Thank Panem Arthur, Chance and their tributes get out first.

Ottilie disappears into her bedroom immediately, but Bayou lingers for a few minutes. "So…do ya think it was good?" he asks, nervously looking at the ground.

"Definitely," says Chance. "Do you have any idea how much the Capitolites like a hot, shirtless teenager?"

"I—I don't—" Bayou stammers, once again wrapping his arms around his chest. "I'm—I'm gonna just…go, now."

Arthur watches him head into his bedroom and shut the door. Feeling a shiver course down his spine, Arthur turns to chance and says, "I've…got somewhere to be as well."

"Where?" Chance asks, taking a few steps closer to Arthur.

Arthur stays silent for a moment. "You know exactly where."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Arthur says as he steps into the elevator, another shiver running down his spine. "I'll be back in the morning."

**A/N: One less chapter of pre-Games to write! Yay! Next up will be the first night in the Capitol, which will include two POVs that I haven't decided on yet.**

**For whatever reason I am in a writing mood this weekend. I am, for once, being productive.**

**1\. Best chariot outfit?**

**2\. Worst chariot outfit?**

**3\. Funniest chariot outfit?**

**4\. Where is Arthur going?**

**Random Question: what's your favorite song?**

**My answer: any song from Hamilton? But particularly Burn and Your Obedient Servant. **

**-Amanda**


	20. Fallen Flowers

_Ainsley Platte, 14_

_District 9 Female_

"Anyone want a cinnamon bun? I'm not sure if they're edible but they're still steaming and they smell so good," Ainsley says, still brandishing her tray of baked goods. "They're probably not real since they've been steaming for over an hour but I'm not adverse to putting one in my mouth."

It seems that that proposition is the last straw for Everett, since he gets to his feet, throwing his chef's hat to the ground as he slams the door to his bedroom. Ainsley starts laughing when she sees the lettering on the door, which reads _Everett Reid_. She glances over at her own door, pleased to see that her name is spelled correctly.

"Somehow they manage to misspell at least six names every year," Gracyn says, shaking her head. She nods in the direction of Ainsley's questionable cinnamon rolls. "And I don't think you should eat any of those."

"Agreed," Iara says. "Anything that steams for over an hour certainly isn't trustworthy."

"Whatever," Ainsley says, setting the tray of likely-fake and untrustworthy cinnamon buns on the coffee table. She slides her hat off, putting it down beside the tray and starts to untie her apron. Carefully examining her hair, which still has flour dust in it, she says, "Who's idea was it to put flour in our _hair_?"

Gracyn shrugs. "It's not the worst thing 9's stylists have come up with."

"Great," Ainsley says, bored. "I'm going to take a walk."

"Where?" Iara calls after her as she heads for the elevator.

"Somewhere," Ainsley snaps. She honestly couldn't care less if the tributes are even allowed out of their apartments at night. She needs to get out, go somewhere, be anyway but here. This entire thing has put her on edge. She's almost finding herself missing the endless fields of grain and the droning of her teachers. At least that place is familiar. At least that place is home.

She jams her finger against the button and steps into the elevator. The calm, dance-y music feels out of place in the Capitol as Ainsley stands with the potential to be slaughtered in just a few days' time.

"No," Ainsley says forcefully aloud as she presses the button for the ground floor. She can't afford to think like that. She has things to get home to. She has so much to fix. She has a family, friends, enough of an existence to warrant killing to continue it. She's hardly had any time to live, and she's willing to do whatever it takes to ensure that she gets more of it.

Ainsley's life has never been perfect. She doubts that anyone's ever has. But for all of its faults, and for all of Ainsley's, her life is her life. And it's a life that shouldn't, couldn't, be over yet. There are so many things she still has to do. Like…reform District 9's education system. That's something she could do as a Victor.

So, maybe this whole thing will benefit her in the long run, as long as she is the one to come out on top. It benefits no one if she dies.

The elevator dings and Ainsley steps out. She finds herself where the chariots ended their journey just an hour before. The vaulted-ceilinged room is darkened down, shadows clouding said vaulted-ceiling like spiderwebs. Ainsley breezes past the lines of twelve chariots, all situated in place, not to be touched for a year, and heads for one of the doors. With a yank, she pulls it open and is blinded by the lights of the Capitol.

She steps out into the fresh air of the evening, the sounds of the Capitolites partying outside of the City Circle blaring in her ears. She quietly takes a few steps forward, looking around to see if there are any Peacekeepers, and finds none.

She's not really alone, per say, but no one is talking to her and she is allowed to just sit and exist. It feels good to just be there, not in the Capitol, but just to _exist_. She's not quite sure how much of that she's got left.

As she takes a seat on the blacktop, she looks around at the now-empty, at all of the roses yet to swept away. Carefully, she moves down the channel and picks up one of the crushed flowers. She stares at it for a long moment before tucking it into the pocket of her pants.

After another moment, Ainsley looks up. She stares down the wide aisle for a while.

She could do it. She could run. They'd catch her, maybe even kill her, but she could run. She could take a chance, try to escape, start a new life in the first district she comes upon.

But she doesn't run. Even she's not that stupid. She stays firmly where she is, a fallen rose in her pocket, flour in her hair, and twenty-three people in the building behind all looking to kill her.

"Ainsley Platte."

Ainsley rolls her eyes, turning around to give this person an earful, that yeah, she'll come inside, no she's not going to run, blah, blah, blah, but when she sees their face she stops.

"That is your name, right? Or are you Lana?" Ashe Illyrian asks her, a slightly nervous edge to her voice.

"Ainsley."

"Oh. Good," Ashe says, nodding and taking a step closer to Ainsley. Ainsley looks at her oddly, but she doesn't move. "What are you doing out here?"

Ainsley shrugs. "Looking."

"Looking at what?"

"Everything," Ainsley answers simply. "The Capitol."

"It's quite strange, isn't it?" Ashe says, staring down the channel with blank eyes. "This whole place. People who party and celebrate the death of the Districts' children. It's hard to fathom that it's even real."

"Yeah," Ainsley says. She kicks at one of the roses on the ground and carefully picks it up. It is a strange thought. Ainsley has never feared death, never held any respect for it, but that still doesn't mean anyone should celebrate it. "They threw a lot of these away."

Ashe picks one up too. As she examines it, she says, "Yeah. They did."

The conversation fizzles off, devolving into silence until Ashe starts walking further down the aisle. "What in Panem are you doing?" Ainsley demands as Ashe crouches and picks something up.

"It's one of the sunflowers, from Quinn and I's costumes," Ashe answers, returning to Ainsley's side and showing her the little yellow flower. "Pretty, isn't it? It's not a real one, though. I've planted the real ones. They're much prettier."

Ainsley, without thinking, reaches out and grabs it. Ashe looks at her oddly but doesn't protest. "Can I keep this?" Ainsley asks. She doesn't know what she's going to do with it, but it feels like a reminder of a different world, of a different life. Ashe's life. Ashe said she'd planted these before, yet Ainsley has never even seen one in person. All she's ever seen is stupid, stupid grain.

"It's not mine, so…sure. Do whatever you want with it," Ashe answers, shrugging and raising her eyebrows. She pockets the fallen rose and turns around. "Well, I'd better head back before Meadow starts looking for me. Have fun with your sunflower."

"Wait," Ainsley says impulsively.

Ashe turns back around curiously. "Yeah?"

"Allies? Like, you and me? Allies?" Ainsley awkwardly stammers, unsure of exactly how to ask this. For a moment, she second-guesses herself, wondering if it would be easier to just go solo when Ashe replies and drags her out of her thoughts.

"Sure," Ashe says, smiling slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yeah," says Ainsley, uncertain of what else she can say. But she has an ally! And Ashe seems as good of an option as any. She grins to herself as Ashe heads back to the Tribute Building, and once Ashe disappears, she starts bouncing on the heels of her feet.

She hopes she gets to see sunflowers on her Victory Tour.

_Sterne Colvin, 14_

_District 5 Male_

For all he jokes about it, Sterne does not want to die.

For all he says, for all he laughs and grins and talks, he does not want to die.

He doesn't want to be dead. He doesn't want to be gone. He doesn't want to be anything but alive. Perfectly, unequivocally, alive.

No matter what he says, no matter how many jokes he makes, he does not want to die.

It's suddenly a very real prospect and he isn't quite sure how he feels about it. On one hand, winning the Hunger Games brings the Victor fame, fortune and eternal glory. On the other, losing means death. The losers are dead.

Perfectly, unequivocally, dead.

There aren't loopholes. There aren't ways to joke his way out of dying. He can't talk his way out of this one. Not this time.

Still, Sterne doesn't want to think about that. After all, he's always preferred to live in the moment, stay in the present, and worry about the future when it gets here.

Which is immensely hard to do when he sees his mentor, Ave, writing his name in her notebook. "What are you doing?" he asks, more confused and curious than mad. He's heard tell of Ave Samenfield's notebook, where all of her fallen tributes lay. A reminder of each death that she has watched and mourned for. Only the dead ones, the ones Ave and Solaryn were unable to save get a place in there. After all, Ave only needs to remember the ones who aren't here anymore.

Sterne does not want a place in that notebook. Not until he's dead, at least.

"Nothing," Ave chirps, closing her notebook and setting it aside.

"You were writing my name," Sterne says, almost accusingly. "Do you…do you think I'm that much of a lost cause?" His voice almost cracks, almost breaks, at the thought of Ave deeming him unsavable. She promised that she gave everyone a chance, that no matter who they were, she would fight for them…what would make Sterne an exception?"

"Just in case," Ave quickly amends. "I have one for Liesel as well."

Sterne deflates. "You don't have to defend it. I get it. I'm a lost cause. Everybody knows it."

"That's not true," Ave says immediately, getting to her feet. "No one is a lost cause. Everyone has a chance."

"No, it's not," replies Sterne, crossing his arms across his chest. "Everyone _deserves_ chance. Not everyone has one."

Ave purses her lips and looks down. "You have a chance. Liesel has a chance. Everyone has a chance."

"Whatever," Sterne mumbles, dropping onto the couch. "I've never been in a fight before. I don't know what it's like to kill someone, or see the light leave someone's eyes, to be the person to push the knife through their heart."

"Very few who enter the Games have," Ave assures him. "And no one who leaves the Games hasn't."

"Maybe I'll be the first," Sterne murmurs, shrugging.

"Maybe you will," Ave says, but Sterne can tell she doesn't mean it. She knows no one gets out of the arena without killing anyone. No matter how it happens, whether you are right there when they die or miles and miles away, no one lives with leaving behind a trail of death. No matter how gruesome the act is, no matter how many tears it causes, no matter who it is or how many it is, no one lives without consequence.

Sterne isn't ready to kill someone. It's not a thought someone of fourteen should be thinking about. He should be thinking about school, homework, friends, and his future. Now, it's nothing but his lack thereof.

"I know it seems bleak right now," Ave says, reaching out and putting a hand on Sterne's knee in, likely, an attempt to appear comforting. "And I know that the prospect of killing or being killed seems horrifying, but know that I will be there with you the whole way. No matter who you kill, who you betray, what you do to survive, I will stand by you. Even if no one else in Panem is pulling for you, I don't abandon my tributes when the going gets tough, no matter who they are and what they've done. You will be no exception. And, if when it's all over, I still need a page for you in my notebook, you will have your place. I promise."

Sterne drops his head. "Thank you."

"However," Ave says, her voice slightly more serious. "I can't do everything for you. You have to go the distance. You have to do whatever you have to in order to win. All I can do is pull for you, bring you sponsors."

Sterne lifts his head and steels himself. He locks eyes with Ave and says, "I can do this. I can do this. I can do this."

"Exactly," Ave says, smiling. She gets to her feet. "I'd recommend you go to bed, if you think you can sleep. Let me tell you, training is tiring."

"Okay," Sterne says quietly, getting to his feet as well. "I'll…see you in the morning, then."

With that, he turns and heads toward his room, noticing that they dropped the _e_ from the end of his name, making it just _Stern Colvin_ on the door. He looks across the hall and notices that Liesel's name is misspelt as well; _Liesl Leenheer_. It makes a laugh bubble out of his mouth. They might die in a few days, and the Capitol doesn't even have the decency to spell their names right?

It's not funny, but Sterne keeps laughing anyway. After all, he can either cry or he can laugh, and he's sure as hell not going to be the one who breaks down.

As soon as he closes the door his room, his chuckles turn slightly hysterical. He's trying so hard to keep his mind off of everything but the inevitability of it all just keeps crashing back in. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to die. He does not want to die, but there isn't much he can do about it.

But Ave is right; he'll always have someone on his side. He'll have Ave. He'll have Ty and Ricky, cheering him on from back home. He'll have his parents. He knows that no matter how alone he may feel in the arena, there will always be someone behind him.

Sterne's laughter abates as he sits down on the bed. The wall to his right is covered in a floor-to-ceiling window, which allows the insanely bright lights from the Capitol to bleed into Sterne's little room full of darkness.

He stares out at the blinding lights as time passes by without his notice. He feels like he should be doing something. He feels like he needs to be making every second count, since for all he knows, this could be one of his last nights alive. But for whatever, he can't make himself move.

The world will move on with Sterne Colvin in it. It already is. Time is already passing without Sterne doing anything about it, and it will continue passing once—if—he's dead. The world doesn't need him, but he needs the world.

After another few long moments, Sterne sits up and starts to pace. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Back. Forth.

His feet continue hitting the carpet as he thinks of home. Of the cloudy, smog-filled skies of District 5. Of running amok with Ty and Ricky all day. Of sitting down with his family and hearing Burton complain about Sterne being lazy. Of going to sleep in his own bed, in his home, in his own District, with no death game hanging over his head.

_God_, he wants to go home. He misses his home so much it makes his chest ache.

But, the only way to get home is to win the Hunger Games. Is to kill someone, to take an innocent life, is to become the person the Games wants him to be.

See, it always comes back to this. It always comes back to the Games. It's a never-ending cycle, a line that Sterne keeps treading, thinking that eventually he'll come to a point only to realize he's been walking in a circle the entire time. It never ends. It never…ends.

The only way it can end is if he wins, and even then he'll have a different circle to pace.

**A/N: So, Ainsley and Sterne are the first tributes we hear from in the Capitol, and I hope it did not disappoint. **

**1\. Should Ainsley have run?**

**2\. Do you like Ainsley and Ashe as allies?**

**3\. Is Ave right about Sterne's chances?**

**4\. Do you think Sterne has a chance?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: which Hunger Games movie is your favorite?**

**My answer: the first one will always be the best to me. It also makes me extremely motivated to work more on my SYOTs, which is always a plus. I will never turn down free inspiration and motivation. **

**ALLIANCES:**

_**Flower Girls: **_**Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)**

**So next up is Training Day One, which will probably take a while since it's got a crap ton of POVs. But I will hopefully see you then. **

**-Amanda **


	21. Better You Than Me

_Mercury Harrigan, 16_

_District 7 Male_

No one knows who he is. Nobody knows his name. No one looks at him like he's a dangerous piece of glass that could shatter at moment. No one recognizes his face.

And oh god it feels so _good_.

It's liberating. He feels like a new person. He feels like he can be Mercury Harrigan again, not just some silent shell of a human being. It's like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders and he can walk like a free man now. Because he _is_ free man! Sure, he's being held against his will and about to go into a televised fight to the death, but it's figurative! He's alive again. He's a human being again, and he never wants this to end.

_But_…there's a voice in his head that tells not only can he never win the Hunger Games, but even if by some statistically improbable chance that he does win, he's not really going to be the Victor. He's always be the one from the Harrigan abuse scandal, who also happens to have won the Hunger Games. These kinds of things aren't forgotten easily. Heck, it's been years since the story came out, and people still stare at him on the street!

Not even his little district partner, Eris, knows who he is. After all, she would have been eleven when the story came out—hardly old enough to be paying attention to big abuse scandals. And something tells him that Eris has more on her mind than other kids being abused.

He had even considered asking her to ally—he's always had a soft spot for little kids, and Eris is no different—until Larken pulled him aside last night and begged him not to ally with her. He claimed it had begun to be some sort of taboo with their tributes—things never worked out for the 7s if they allied.

Mercury would argue that things worked out for Macy Barker—not so much for Shallow—but whatever. So he now has to avoid allying with Eris, but would it really have hurt to ask? Who knows if she'd even say yes?

It's kind of hard to even look at Eris with the thought of what Larken said last night hanging limp in the air. He's always liked kids. In years of past, whenever a twelve-year-old would get Reaped, he would always feel awful about it. Don't even get him started on the Quell.

He _wanted_ to ally with her. But he's never been very good at disobeying orders, especially not direct ones from the man who is supposed to keeping him alive.

Eris doesn't even know the conversation happened, but surely she can sense a change in Mercury's demeanor toward her. She seems like a smart girl. Which makes his current position slightly awkward, as he and Eris are crammed together in an elevator with the pairs from 11, 3 and the boy from 5. The only good part of this arrangement is that there aren't any Careers in the elevator and that they're all far too uncomfortable to talk.

Except for the boys from 5 and 3, who seem to be deep in conversation even though he's pretty sure they met mere moments ago. But, he supposes, each to their own. He just doesn't know how to form relationships so quickly. His trust isn't an easy thing to get.

But he swears Sterne keeps glancing at him. He's probably looking at Ashe though.

With a cheerful _ding_, the elevator doors open onto the Training Floor. Mercury files out with the rest of the elevator's inhabitants, thinking of trying the water purification station first when he feels someone tug on his sleeve.

Mercury whirls around and finds himself face-to-face with the boys from 3 and 5. He nervously gives them a half-hearted wave, his eyes darting from Sterne's face to Darwin's.

"Hey," Darwin says. "So, Sterne and I decided to ally and we were wondering if you'd like to join us? We considered asking Quinn but he kind of seems like the loner type and you're also short, like us. So, what do you say?"

For a moment, Mercury doesn't say anything, almost expecting Sterne and Darwin to laugh in his face and say "why would we ever want you as our ally? Ha, gullible idiot."

But they don't. They just continue staring at him expectantly.

Mercury slowly nods, dropping his head against his chest. "Okay." His voice is nearly inaudible, which strikes him as a stark contrast from the way Darwin talks—confident, loud. So many words. He misses those.

"Great!" Sterne exclaims, his cheerfulness seeming rather forced. "What should we work on first?"

Mercury shrugs, content to follow his new allies wherever they feel like going. Calling them his allies doesn't feel right. But they are his allies. Maybe it's just that he has a hard time fathoming that anyone would choose him as an ally over, say, Quinn. Mercury gets the feeling that that was who Darwin and Sterne _really_ wanted, but once they decided that Quinn would probably turn them down, so they went to the next best option.

Somehow, that next best option is him.

After a few minutes of careful consideration, Darwin proposes that they head to the plant identification station, since the trainer looks nice and he doesn't know a lot about plants and blah, blah, blah. Mercury doesn't really pick up on most of what Darwin says; all he knows is that they're going to identify plants.

"Do you know a lot about plants, Mercury?" Darwin says.

Mercury startles. "Um. No—not really."

"Okay," Darwin says, raising his eyebrows at Mercury. "I've read about edible plants but I've never encountered most of them. There isn't a lot of vegetation in District 3, you know? It's all gray and dreary and urban."

Mercury nods, unsure of how to answer. He never knows how to answer anymore.

Darwin starts talking to Sterne and the trainer, leaving Mercury standing on the periphery, wondering if he's even supposed to be here. Do Sterne and Darwin really want him as their ally? Or are they just bidding their time until they buck up the courage to ask Quinn and oust him? They certainly don't want him because he's strong, or that he looks like a threat they want to take out. He's just Mercury, but now he's not sure if that is enough.

_Tamarah "Tam" Colt, 16_

_District 10 Female_

"There must be more," Tam mumbles as she blindly gropes around behind the pipes in the kitchen sink. "there must be more."

She continues to feverishly dig through cabinet after cabinet, her hands trembling and her head pounding. "There must be more." Her breathing is heavy as she moves from cupboard to cupboard, tearing open drawers and dumping their contents on the ground. "There must be more."

The grating sound of utensils hitting the ground, scraping and screeching, makes her want to scream, but the overwhelming need for _more_ overrides that. "There must be more."

Her head hurts. She wants to go home. She misses home. Home is where the alcohol is.

She never knew she was this dependent on her liquor. It was a hobby, a way to pass time…she never knew how hard it was to survive without it. She just liked the feeling, that's all…this was never supposed to happen. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be here, frantically searching through the entire District 10 apartment just to satisfy the insatiable need for _more_. "There must be more."

But there isn't more. There isn't _any_. There's nothing, absolutely no alcohol.

Tam doesn't know how to survive without it. It's been so long since she was really sober—she always did her best to be at least a tiny bit buzzed at all times—and now…she's stone cold sober, with no preparation, no slow and gentle weaning.

Just nothing. Absolutely zip. Zero. Nada.

What is she without her alcohol?

What is she at all?

"There must be more," Tam mumbles again as she leans hard against the wall, slowly sliding toward the floor. "There must be more…"

"What in Panem are you doing?!" the voice is harsh and unforgiving, hardly the kind of thing Tam would like to hear right now.

"Making excellent life choices," Tam murmurs, covering her eyes with her arm. It's probably Rhett, her mind reasons. Surely Celinda wouldn't care…

Celinda!

Celinda _must_ have something, right? She must have some kind of alcohol; beer, wine, hard liquor, whatever! She must have _something_! Something that can calm this…this…this _need_ for her vices.

"You're supposed be at training!"

_So it's not Rhett_, Tam muses, keeping her arm in front of her eyes.

"Of course I'm not Rhett! Who do you think I am?"

Tam finally removes her arm from her face and finds her escort, who absolutely has a name but Tam has no idea what it is, staring down at her. "Oh. Hi."

"Why in Panem have you made such a mess? Come on, girl, get up!" he barks, pacing toward the chaotic kitchen, with its overturned drawers and emptied cabinets. "Honestly…I thought I left the druggies behind when I was moved out of 6."

"I'm not high," Tam mumbles, cautiously getting to her feet. The world sways nausea as she stumbles toward the couch and flops onto the cushions. Obviously, she's not drunk either, which would be preferable…but if her escort is offering…? She's not adverse to doing some drugs, as long as it shuts down her emotions for a while.

"Awful district scum," the escort mutters before turning to an Avox stationed at the wall and demanding they clean up this "horrendous mess" that was made by "a disgusting district trash bag".

Tam finds herself wondering how exactly this man has kept his job.

"Now go to training, girl!" the escort finishes, waving his arms madly.

Tam squints at him. "And if I say no?"

"Then I'll drag you there by the ear," he says, seeming completely and totally serious. "Why don't you do me a big favor and win this so that I can get promoted out this meat-packing hellhole?"

Tam glares at him, weighing her options, before she decides that she'd rather not cause a huge scene by having her escort scream at her the whole way down to the Training Floor. She angrily jams a finger at the button on the elevator panel, glaring at her escort the whole way.

After a moment of slightly awkward glaring, she steps into the elevators and punches the button for the Training Floor.

After a few moments of jazzy elevator music, the doors open on District 5's floor to reveal the girl from said power district. "Oh. Hello," she says, likely for formality's sake alone as she steps into the elevator. "I was just speaking with my mentor."

Tam looks at her oddly, having little care for 5's explanation. "Okay."

"10, right?"

"Yes," Tam says, wondering why 5 is so interested in conversation. From what she's seen of the girl so far, she doesn't exactly seem like the type to make friends.

The elevator shudders to a stop at District 2's floor, but the doors don't open. Both Tam and 5 stare at them for a minute before Tam says, "They're supposed to open."

"They are," 5 agrees. "Whatever. I'm sure they'll open any second."

The doors, however, do not seem to agree with that statement, as they remain resolutely closed.

Tam starts working her jaw as she leans against the glass walls of the elevator. At least the view is nice.

"How ironic would it be if they never get us out and we starve to death in an elevator instead of dying in the Hunger Games?" 5 asks, laughing. "I'm Liesel, by the way."

"Tam."

"Quick question," Liesel says. "First off all, do you have any good ideas of a place to hide keys?"

"Uh…no?" Tam says, looking at Liesel like she's gone insane. "Why?"

"Because I stole these keys from my dad and I'd like a place to hide them." Liesel brandishes a ring of shiny keys.

"Why?"

"Something to remember me by," Liesel says off-handedly.

Tam swallows. "Here. Give them to me. I'll hide them in 10's apartment."

"Great!" Liesel says, handing Tam the keys. "Do you like girls?"

"What kind of question is that?" Tam exclaims. It's not that she doesn't like girls. Of course she likes girls! Who _wouldn't_ like girls?

"A legitimate one." Liesel shrugs. "So, I have an ex, right? She cheated on me a few months ago, and I'd really like to rub this in her face. "See, Noor! I can find love in the middle of a death match! I don't need you, bitch." See what I'm getting at?"

Tam grins mischievously. "I one-hundred-percent do."

"So…you wanna be allies, then?" Liesel asks.

"Absolutely."

Tam can always get behind quests for revenge. She opens her mouth to say something else, but before she can, the elevator springs back to life and brings them to the Training Floor.

_Lana Meadows, 14_

_District 3 Female_

Lana has been…well, not "watching", per say, but more "observing" Ashe and Ainsley all morning, and has finally bucked up the courage to ask to join their alliance. She knows that in most Hunger Games alliances, you have to be invited in. You can't just invite yourself. But after watching them pick up Eris, Lana feels obligated to give it a shot.

"Hi!" she says cheerfully as she approaches them. "I'm Lana. District 3."

"Ashe, Ainsley and Eris," Ashe answers, seemingly sizing her up. "Do you need something or…?"

"I was actually wondering if I could join your alliance," Lana says, trying to seem calm and collected. She's not calm. She's not collected. But Ashe doesn't need to know that.

Ashe glances at both Ainsley and Eris before she says, "Sure. Okay."

Lana breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, we're great and everything," Ainsley says impatiently. "So do we want Lyndie or not? 'Cause if we've got Lana in…"

"We need all hands on deck," answers Ashe, her hands on her hips. "Lana, Eris, will you offer Lyndie a place in our alliance?"

"Sure," Eris says. She grabs Lana's wrist and pulls her across the Training Floor to where Lyndie is being taught to make snares. "Hi, Lyndie!" Eris marches right up to her, earning the pair a glare from the trainer who was teaching Lyndie up until she was so rudely interrupted.

"Hi," Lyndie says uncertainly, setting down her half-finished snare. "Do you want to use this station or something?"

"No," Lana says, cutting over Eris. "We're here to ask you to ally with us, Ainsley and Ashe."

Lyndie looks at them for a moment as if expecting them to yell "Haha! Psych!" and laugh in her face before she says, "Are you serious? Yes!"

"Great," Lana says. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to get this snare to work," Lyndie says, examining her snare sadly. "I don't think it's going to work, though. Can I come with you guys, wherever you're going?"

"Yeah, of course," Lana says. "Come on. Let's try the agility course. It's like a playground, right?" It's probably more interesting than the playground back home, since all there was at the school for the little kids was a single slide and some swings. And if Lana is going to be dead in a few days, she may as well have a bit of fun before she goes, right?

"Let's go," Lyndie agrees cheerfully, but Eris legs behind, seeming reluctant.

Lana stops and turns to her. "Eris? Are you okay?"

"Mm. Yeah," says Eris, raising her head. "I'm fine. I'm just not very good at climbing, that's all."

"…okay," Lana says uncertainly, giving Eris an odd look before she powers on to the agility course. They pass the girls from 6 and 12, as well as two of the Careers, and Lana can't say it doesn't make her uncomfortable. It's hard to look at her competition, knowing that any one of them could end her life in a matter of days. For all she knows, Lyndie or Eris could be the ones to kill her!

She doubts Lyndie has it in her, but Eris seems like a wildcard. While both of them seem determined, if either of them is going to kill her, it will be Eris.

She lets out a sigh and hopes that that never comes to pass.

"Who wants to go first?" Lana asks as she steps toward the monkey bars on the agility course.

Silence.

"Alright, I'll go first, then," says Lana, laughing. She puts a hand on the first bar and starts to pull herself across, all the while chorusing a lovely mantra through her head.

_Don't look down don't look down don't look down don't look down don't look down—_

She doesn't look down. She makes the whole way across, glad to have her feet on solid ground again. "Eris? Lyndie?"

"I'll go," Lyndie volunteers, stepping forward and pulling herself onto the bars.

Lana nods and goes onto to the obstacle; monkey bars, but the bars replaced with ropes. She takes a deep breath before she grabs the first rope, finding herself dangling by her hands since the rope is too short for her legs to grasp. She steels herself and grabs for the next rope, then the next, and the next and the next and the next.

Her feet reach solid ground once, and she looks back to see Lyndie still on the monkey bars, about halfway across.

Lana swallows before turning to the next obstacle and—

_THUNK!_

She whirls around and sees that Lyndie is no longer on the monkey bars. She's nowhere to be found. "Eris!" Lana exclaims. "Where's Lyndie?!" She runs over to the ladder on the side of the platform and quickly descends it, her feet pounding the ground as she rushes toward the mats beneath the monkey bars. "Lyndie? Lyndie!"

Lyndie is lying on the mat, cradling her left arm to her chest. "It hurts. My arm, it hurts."

Lana looks up to Eris, who is still standing on the first platform and looking at them. "Eris, go get one of the medics."

She watches as Eris dashes off, and then she notices the boy from 1 and the girl from 4 laughing at Lyndie. "Hey!" she yells, stalking up to them. "The hell are you laughing at?"

"Incompetence," Shad answers simply, crossing his arms.

"Yeah, really?" Lana cries angrily. "And how is falling off the agility course "incompetent"?"

"You're wasting your time, sweetheart," Shad says, leaning closer to Lana's face. "It's not like any of you are going to win, broken bones or not." Both he and Ottilie start to laugh, despite the fact that Shad's is much more raucous than Ottilie's.

Lana spots Ashe and Ainsley coming over as the medics tend to Lyndie's arm. Her glare deepens and she turns back to Shad. "What makes you so much better than Lyndie?"

Shad balls his fists at his sides. "I'll have you know that I've spent my entire life training for this moment!"

"Uh-huh, and when was the last time a trained Career from 1 won the Games?" Lana snarks, crossing her arms across her chest. "What was it, Alexandrite Hildebrand, over a decade ago? What makes you think training puts you so much further ahead?"

Shad raises one of his fists, a vein in his neck dancing spastically. "You'd better watch who you're messing with, bitch—"

"Okay, Lana, time to go!" Ashe says suddenly, grabbing Lana's sleeves and pulling her away from Shad. "Let's not get punched today. There will be plenty of time for fistfights in the arena."

Lana throws her off. "Ashe, please stay out of this." She turns back to Shad. "Why don't you get off your high horse and realize that you're not the only human being in the world?"

With that, she stalks off, followed by Ashe and Ainsley, watching the medics carefully examining Lyndie's arm. She feels awful for Lyndie; injuries of any kind can be the thing that causes you to die.

But another, tiny part of her, the part that will do whatever it takes to win, says _better her than me._

_Calista Abbey, 18_

_District 1 Female_

It has becoming extremely apparent to Calista that the Career pack is one-hundred-percent fucked.

Shad hates her.

She hates Shad.

Scoria hates Wonder.

Wonder is…well, Wonder.

Ottilie hates Bayou.

And, well, who knows what Bayou is thinking?

So, yeah. Pretty much one-hundred-percent fucked.

_Just once_, Calista thinks as she follows Ottilie and Shad into the cafeteria. _Can the Careers have a normal year?_

It seems as if the world is conspiring against (normal) Career Victories, at least as of late. Year after year after year the Careers are an extremely volatile mess of teenage hormones and knives, and it's leaving Calista wondering if there is even going to _be_ a Career pack this year—she talked to Ottilie, Scoria and Bayou earlier, and at least they all agreed to be begrudging allies, but Shad is another thing entirely. It's not that Calista wants to work with Shad, but there is strength in numbers. The only thing that worries her about it is that Shad will turn on them.

She has to hope there is enough honor in that stupid, tiny, _tiny_ brain of his for him to decide that killing her in her sleep isn't a good course of action. She knows how he works. He wants to be adored if he returns to District 1. He should know that no Victor who betrays their allies like that ever becomes revered.

It's never made sense to Calista. For all of her life, honor has never applied, and the last place she feels she should learn to uphold it is in the Hunger Games.

"The roll, please," Calista says, pointing as she shifts her hold on her lunch tray.

She turns around, looking for wherever the Careers are camped out at. Her eyes catch on the alliance of little girls, which she has a much higher respect for after watching the girl from 3 seriously tell off Shad.

Calista has never been the gloating type, but damn does she want to rub it into Shad's face. He got told off by a fourteen-year-old girl, and it's clearly bothering him. Maybe it's because he's finally realizing that he isn't an immortal god who is adored by all as well as feared by all. Maybe reality has finally come knocking at his door, and he'll become at least slightly tolerable.

However, Calista won't get her hopes up.

She's known Shad since day one, and he hasn't changed a bit. It's a little bit late in the game to do so now.

With a heavy thunk, Calista sits down at the table that Ottilie has claimed. She sighs as she sets down her tray and picks up her fork, but she doesn't start eating.

Bayou sits down next to her as Scoria joins them on the opposite side of the table, but Calista notices that Shad is noticeably absent. "Where's Shad?" she asks, looking around the cafeteria, wondering if Shad is still getting food.

After a moment, she spots him sitting alone near the wall. "The hell is he doing?" Ottilie demands, angrily dropping her fork. "Abandoning us? We're already down one; we can't afford to lose Shad as well." She lowers her voice and meets Calista's eyes. "And, Shad's got strength to him."

Calista wrinkles her nose. "I'll sleep better at night knowing he's not a part of our alliance."

Ottilie shrugs and opens her mouth to say something, but is interrupted by Bayou. "Maybe we should try ta get some outliers?"

"Absolutely not," Ottilie says firmly. "We'll find a way to get Shad back."

"How do you expect us to do that?" Scoria growls. "He abandoned us. Simple as that. He's not going to come crawling back to us."

Ottilie huffs, aggressively stabbing her fork straight through her bread. "Whatever." She rounds on Bayou. "And, we're not going to stoop so low as to take in outliers. Besides, none of them are worth it."

"What about the guy from 11?" Calista offers, her eyes dancing toward said guy from 11. "Didn't he volunteer?"

"Yeah, he looks strong," adds Bayou quietly.

"We're not taking in any outliers!" Ottilie cries, slamming her fists on the table.

"Who died and made you our leader?" says Scoria annoyedly.

"I'm simply the best for the job," Ottilie says, crossing her arms.

"And who decided that? You?" Calista says. "You don't just get to appoint yourself the leader of the Career Pack. We're supposed to decide someone who will actually do a good job at it."

"And I will!" Ottilie says indignantly. She looks from Scoria to Bayou to Calista, as if searching for someone supporting her. After a moment, her scowl deepens and she powers to her feet, weaving through the tables of tributes before she disappears out the doors. Calista watches her go, her gaze wandering through her competition. She notices the girl from 8 cradling her arm, which is now held in a bright green cast. For a moment, her heart pangs with sympathy before it reminds her of where she is. This is the Hunger Games. She's a Career, trained for this moment, and there's no room for sympathy.

"So…" Bayou says, tapping his hands nervously on the table. "Anyone wanna ask the boy from 11?"

Scoria raises her eyebrows at him. "No."

"So we're a trio?" Bayou asks uncertainly, his eyes jumping back and forth from Scoria to Calista. He continues to drum his fingers on the tabletop, seeming too nervous to sit still.

Scoria bites her lips, looking toward the doors where Ottilie disappeared into. "She'll be back. She's not stupid. She's just prideful."

"How do you know so much about her?" Calista asks, but she never gets an answer. A bell rings from somewhere in the ceiling, signaling that lunch is over. Calista sighs, realizing that she never even ate anything as she gets up and dumps her tray.

On her way back to the cafeteria, she finds herself beside Shad. She glares and turns toward him, shoving an arm against his chest and pressing him against the wall. "What the actual hell was that?"

Shad exhales sharply through his nose and shoves Calista away. "I don't see a reason for any of us to be friends, so I sat alone."

"In case you haven't noticed, none of us are friends," Calista snarls. "Hell, Ottilie walked out on us because we refused to let her be the leader."

"Well, that sounds like a personal problem," Shad says.

"It concerns you too," Calista says darkly. "You're part of the pack as well, aren't you? It doesn't matter where you sat at lunch. And if we're down two people, we're sitting ducks."

"Well—"

"I'm not done. So how about you do all of us a favor and just agree to cooperate? We'll all live longer if we play nice for a while." Calista crosses her arms and takes a step back, waiting for Shad's reaction.

"Whatever." Shad shoves Calista away and stalks down the hallway, looking remarkably similar to an unhappy and extremely tall toddler.

"Coward," Calista mutters as she follows him back in the Training Center. Yeah, the Careers are royally fucked, and Calista has never been a very good mediator.

_Larch Tyre, 18_

_District 6 Male_

He's decided to call it the touch of death.

It seems to follow him everywhere, taking everyone he loves, and now it's come for him as well. It's not that he's ever really feared death, despite the fact that no one around him can ever escape it, but it's become a very real possibility. He isn't sure how to feel about it. How is he _supposed_ to feel about it? Afraid? Nervous? Confident?

He doesn't feel any of that. The touch of death has come for him, but he isn't afraid of it. He isn't nervous about what's beyond death. He isn't confident in his chances. Death has come for him, it's so close, but he finds himself nearly incapable of caring. Everybody else has died, so what's the difference if he joins them? Mom, Dad, Sage, Sorrel. Dead. He'll just be the last round of Tyre corpses to be delivered to the graveyard. There won't even be anyone around to mourn him.

Larch _knows_ that he's supposed to feel _something_. Even if it isn't because he might die, but because there will be no one left to mourn for him, but he doesn't.

He doesn't feel anything.

He doesn't feel anything.

He doesn't feel anything.

He's sure he's supposed to feel something.

Everybody else feels something. They feel afraid. They feel nervous. They feel confident. They feel something further than indifference toward their impending, likely-gory demises.

Larch, apparently, is not one of them. He doesn't feel anything about the Games. Well, that's not exactly true. The Games are an abomination, a sadistic farce of a punishment that has lasted far too long, but he doesn't feel anything about being _a part of the Games_. He'll die, just like everybody else in his family.

"Would you like a sparring partner?" the swords trainer asks, tapping Larch on the shoulder. He startles, realizing how long he's been standing here cradling a gladius in his hands.

He silently shakes his head and returns the sword to its' rack. Weapons don't feel right in his hands anyway.

Larch starts towards the agility course, seeing the ropes as a good place to sit and observe. That's one thing that Larch has always been good at; he's good at watching. Interaction has never really worked for him, and observation has just always made more sense. He can sit and watch all the live long day and never have to worry about people.

It takes him a few minutes to scale the ropes course, but once he reaches the top, he relaxes against the wall, satisfied. It's like an observation deck. Perfect for watching and waiting.

He tiredly follows the movements of the group of little girls, watching them go from one station to another, wondering if any of those girls could ever put up a fight. His eyes catch on the bright green cast adorning the girl from 8's arm. He crinkles his eyes slightly at the sight, his mouth twisting into a frown. It's not that he saw a lot of potential in the little girl before, but now…she'll be lucky to make it out of the first ten minutes. Broken bones are no laughing matter, especially not in the Hunger Games.

Larch pulls his legs toward his chest, his gaze jumping to the Careers. The pair from 1 are apparently arguing about something or another—he's noticed they seem to do a lot of that—and the girl from 2 seems to be resolutely ignoring the world. He can't say he blames her, since her entire alliance seems like they hate each other.

It doesn't seem like a very good year for anyone. Not just in the fact that they're here, about to go into the Hunger Games, but hardly anybody is even pretending to get along. It just makes Larch even more content with his decision to stay wary and avoid inter-tribute interaction as much as physically possible.

The next object of his attention turns out to be the trio of boys—who are all eerily similar heights—from 3, 5 and 7. The boy from 5 is trying to figure out how to hold a spear correctly, despite the fact that it looks like he can hardly lift it, while the boy from 3 is trying (and clearly failing) to get the boy from 7 to engage in conversation.

Eventually his gaze wanders to his district partner, making her way to the bathroom. The girl from 12 is watching her go.

See, that's something Larch is having a hard time understanding. He's been watching those two all morning, been watching Jayce from the moment he met her. They're a pair of enigmas. He can tell that they know each other—he isn't sure how, but they definitely know each other—and that there is something not exactly…right with their relationship. It's something with the way Jayce has been carrying herself, the way the girl from 12 seems almost fanatically obsessed with Jayce. Just watching them makes Larch uncomfortable.

"Can you move?"

Larch looks up, surprised to find himself face-to-face with the boy from 11. "What?"

"You're kind of blocking the next part of the course," 11 says, raising one of his eyebrows.

"Oh." Larch starts to move. "My leg's asleep."

"Alright? And?"

"Whatever." Larch slides over to the edge of platform, letting his legs dangle over. The ropes course sits extremely high off the ground. Like, high enough that if one of them fell off, they could potentially break their neck.

It scares Larch more than he'd like to admit that the thought came to him of pushing the boy from 11 off. He's never really considered what it would feel like to take someone else's life. He's always been the survivor, not really the victim, but he's never been on the killing end of things. He saw the light leave Sorrel's eyes, yeah, but he'd seen it coming. There was nothing that could have been done for Sorrel at the time.

Larch watches 11 start on the next piece of the ropes course, wondering if, perhaps, he could be looking at a Victor. Any one of the tributes he has watched today could be a Victor. Larch would like to think that he, too, could be a Victor…but he has never been one for optimism.

_Navarro Lune, 12_

_District 8 Male_

This may be one of the best days of Navarro's life.

And he has had some pretty goddamn fantastic days.

Because murder. Is. Fucking. Legal. In. The. Hunger. Games.

Navarro has a hit-list with twenty-three names on it, and there will be absolutely no discrimination in how he crosses off those names. He can kill as many tributes as he wants with no legal opposition—not that there's been a lot in the past—in any way he wants, for however long he wants, and he gets rich once it's done.

What's not to love?

Well, there's that tiny part of him that says _you might die?_

But Navarro has never once in his life feared dying. He's killed people before. He's caused people so much torment and has always gotten off scot-free. What's to stop it from happening again? He always gets off. It will always turn out fine. That's just how it works.

It's also insanely fun to stalk around the Training Floor with a couple of knives, examining his prey. He's carefully making mental choices—who does he target first? Who might pose a threat? Who might put up a fight? Who would make a fun kill? Who does he want to get rid of? Who would be easiest to kill?

He's still laughing and grinning like a maniac after watching his pitiful little district partner break her arm. How could she be any more incompetent?

Well, he's also come to the conclusion that she _couldn't_ be any more incompetent. He's torn on whether or not he wants her to be his first kill. On one hand, she'd be exceedingly easy to do away with. Hell, he could do it right now if he wanted to. She's vulnerable, she clearly doesn't know how to put up a fight, broken arm or not.

However, on the other, it wouldn't make a _statement_. Sure, killing your own district partner, who happens to also be twelve-years-old would definitely say something, but not the _right_ thing. It would prove him as a maniac, not as a formidable adversary. That's not what he wants. He wants to be feared, but only for the right reasons.

Which is why someone like, say, the boy from 3 would make a good statement. He could go for the boy from 3, maybe grab one or both of 3's allies, then get one of the little girls' alliance. If he's lucky, he may even get the chance to take out the girl from 4. She's young, and although she has some height on Navarro—sadly, most people do—he bets he could take her down, easy. He'll be the Victor of the One-Hundredth, Fifty-Third Annual Hunger Games in no time.

He stalks over to the knife-throwing station and starts lobbing the various daggers he's carried around all day at the targets. It's getting to the late afternoon, time bleeding into the evening, which means he only has a little bit of time left today. He likes to think that he's done a good job of intimidating people, since, despite his small stature, he is not someone to be messed with. You just don't mess with Navarro Lune. It will likely be the last thing you ever do.

The knives smack into the target, one after another, over and over again. He doesn't hit a lot of bullseyes, but when you're throwing a weapon at someone, you don't need to have amazing accuracy. The knives never miss the target, and therefore, if it was a human being, he would have hit some part of them.

Navarro has been in enough fits to know that being stabbed in any body part will cause someone to pause. That shit _hurts_. Navarro hasn't been stabbed many times, but he has enough scars to know how it feels. And any moment of hesitation can be used against someone in a fight—so, basically, you stab them in the shoulder, the arm, the stomach, the dick, wherever, you're probably going to win. After all, Navarro has yet to lose a fight yet. If he had, he likely wouldn't be here right now.

"Would you like some help with your accuracy?"

Navarro whirls around, startled, and presses one of his knives to the neck of whoever just spoke to him.

The trainer stumbles back, her face draining of color. "Put down the knife, please!"

"What the fuck do you want?" Navarro growls, picking up another knife from the ground. He's not adverse to slaughtering this woman right now. After all, Capitolites aren't real people, and murdering fake people isn't a crime.

"I was—I was going to offer you help!" the woman splutters, still terrified. He notices that she's shaking from head-to-toe. He turns up his nose at her terror, at her incompetence, at her lack of readiness to face death. He's been facing death his entire life, and he's more than prepared for that kind of outcome! Not that it will ever come, obviously. He's going to win even if it's the last thing he does.

"I don't need help!" Navarro shouts, his eyes narrow. "Why in Panem would I _ever_ want help from someone? Tell me! Why would I?"

"I don't—I don't know—"

Suddenly Navarro feels arms hook under his shoulders. "What? Fuck!" he shouts, failing wildly as the Peacekeeper drags him away from the pathetic "trainer". "Let go of me! LET GO OF ME!" He hates having people touch him, no matter what part it is. "LET ME GO, YOU SICK FUCK!"

He tightens his grip on the knife and digs it into the Peacekeeper's side. "Oh! Shit!" the Peacekeeper shouts, dropping Navarro in his hurry to get the dagger out of his skin.

_Case in point_, Navarro thinks as he dashes across the Training Floor and toward the elevator. Peacekeepers aren't real people either—if they were real people, they'd know to fear Navarro. They'd know that you don't mess with Navarro Lune, since it's always the last thing you'll ever do.

Navarro slams his elbow against the up button. The elevator arrives a moment later, and Navarro leaps inside, slapping his hand against the _floor eight_ button.

As the doors close, another Peacekeeper arrives, trying to grab Navarro and probably prosecute him or something, but the doors close before he can. Navarro grins and drops his other knife, noticing that he got some of the Peacekeeper's blood on his jacket. He carefully takes it off and examines the little vermillion stains.

He's always liked the sight of blood, especially if it's blood he made someone bleed.

And, boy, oh boy, is he going to make more people bleed. Maybe he'll start with his pathetic, incompetent little district partner. Or perhaps he'll snatch the life right out of the lungs of the girl from 2. Who knows?

The only thing Navarro knows is that he will be the one coming out on top.

**A/N: I'm sad because I'm listening to the whole Dear Evan Hansen soundtrack (previously I'd only heard like three songs) so I'm sad now. I already said that. Whatever. I'm happy though because I also listened to Be More Chill and that musical is like a fever dream. **

**1\. Favorite alliance formed in this chapter?**

**2\. Least favorite alliance?**

**3\. Are the Careers completely screwed (again)?**

**4\. Is Lyndie screwed as well?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: I have a golden retriever that shares a name with one of our tributes. I'd tell you the dog's gender but I don't think anybody would get it right if I did. So, whoever guesses it first gets my respect. **

**ALLIANCES:**

_**We're Actually Extremely Volatile This Year: **_**Calista (D1F), Shad (D1M), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M), Ottilie (D4F)?**

_**Flower Power: **_**Lana (D3F), Eris (D7F), Lyndie (D8F), Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)**

_**Sad Lesbians: **_**Jayce (D6F), Ishtar (D12F)**

_**Disaster Lesbians: **_**Liesel (D5F), Tam (D10F)**

_**5'6 Gang: **_**Darwin (D3M), Sterne (D5M), Mercury (D7M)**

**Also, there is a new poll on my profile. **

**-Amanda**


	22. Letting Go

_Tamarah "Tam" Colt, 16_

_District 10 Female_

When Tam enters her bedroom at the end of the day, her head pounding slightly less than it had been, she spots something on her bed. She raises an eyebrow at the sight and picks up the bottle, listening to the liquid slosh around within. A note tied around the neck of the bottle catches her eye. She scans it quickly and curiously.

_A little something to tide you over. _

_Don't drink it all once, and don't tell Rhett. _

_-Celinda_

Tam slips the note off the neck and reads the label, feeling less than interested. What could Celinda possibly provide her with that will make her feel less like a steaming pile of shit?

_Finest Capitol Vodka. _

Practically feverish, Tam uncorks the bottle and takes a deep sniff. It's definitely vodka. It's the real deal. It's the real deal. Oh god, it's the real deal.

Tam takes a long swig, knocking her head back and sighing in contentment. She _knew_ there was alcohol around here somewhere. She _knew_ there was more. She _knew_ there was more.

Oh, god, there is more.

There's _more_.

Tam quickly puts the bottle back to her mouth and drinks deeply again. It doesn't matter if she has a hangover tomorrow. Short term gain, long term long, but who cares? Who cares if she gets this kind of liberating feeling again? Tam figured she would die before she would ever get her hands on any kind of liquor again, yet here she is, a half-empty bottle in her hands.

She peeks out of her bedroom and sees no one but Afandina. She purses her lips and leaves her room, bottle in hand. She makes her way to the elevator and presses the up button, which spurs Afandina to notice her presence. "Where in Panem are you going?"

"To the roof," Tam says with a shrug. "Why? You wanna come? I got alcohol." She cocks her head to side slightly. "We could get hammered together. It's a great bonding experience."

Afandina glares at her for a moment before he gets up. "You know, it might be the existential dread talking, but that actually sounds nice. You got more than one bottle, though? I'm not putting my mouth on anything your lips have touched."

"Well…I can get one," Tam says quickly. Getting drunk alone isn't nearly as fun as it is with company. So Tam bounds over to Celinda's door and knocks quickly.

Celinda answers a moment later. "What do you—oh, I see you found to bottle."

"Yeah," Tam says. "Any way you'll give me more?"

"Oh…sure," Celinda says. She disappears for a moment before she returns with a bottle of tequila. "You'd better enjoy this stuff—it's one of my last and I've got to last on it until the end of the Games."

"Of course, of course!" Tam exclaims, snatching the bottle out of the Celinda's hands and slamming the door in her face. "Alrighty, I got the booze! Let's go! To the roof!"

Afandina takes a deep breath, looking like he's regretting this decision, but follows Tam into the elevator anyway. Once the doors close around them, Tam hands him the bottle of tequila and takes a small swig from her own vodka. "You ever been drunk before?"

"Of course I have," Afandina says sharply. "What kind of loser hasn't been drunk before?"

Tam frowns but doesn't say anything. After a moment, the elevator doors ding and they step out onto the roof.

Wind whips through Tam's hair, making her wish she had pulled it up before she came up here. The lights of the Capitol stare at her from below, screaming their brightness and excitement into her eyes. She gravitates toward the edge, setting down her bottle and letting her hands rest on the railing.

It feels…empowering, almost. To be so high, for everything, _everyone_, to be beneath her. She could get addicted to this feeling. It feels as if the world is at her mercy—it's so far down, nothing could ever touch her up here. She's safe from everything. From the Hunger Games. From sobriety. From rejection. From disappointment. From everything.

A loud _clink!_ reminds her that she isn't alone up here. Afandina stands beside her, his mostly-empty bottle of tequila set on the edge next to Tam's. He takes a deep breath, his eyes shut, and says, "This is kind of place I should be."

Tam cocks her head to the side like a confused dog. "What do you mean?" She takes another swig of vodka. She can feel it taking effect on her now. God, she missed that.

"On top of everything. The king of the world," Afandina says, smiling smugly. He drains the lost few drops of tequila and suddenly hurls the bottle off of the roof. It goes sailing through the air before it disappears between the buildings. Tam listens for the sound of hitting something, but no sound ever comes. She wonders if it will keep flying forever. "Just think. We're the two highest people in the entire world." He glances at Tam, that smug little smirk still on his face.

"It's a long way down," Tam observes thoughtfully, peering over the edge and toward the sea of cars and colors far below them. It's mesmerizing. "A long, long way to fall."

"I'd make it," Afandina says confidently. "I always make it."

"Whatever you say," Tam says offhandedly, turning away from the edge and walking toward the garden. The flowers are hardly visible in the dim light, but Tam examines them anyway. Some of them are blue, she notes. Some of them are white. Some of them are yellow. Her favorites happen to be the red ones. It's a color she associates with herself.

Tam picks one of the red ones and returns to the edge, finding Afandina still leaning over the railing and staring out across the city.

She puts her bottle to her lips, only to find it bone-dry. With a disappointed sigh, she slides the red flower down the neck of the bottle until just the petals are peeking out.

And, with the spirit of Afandina Hariri, she reels back her arm and throws it off the roof with all of her might.

It's her way of letting go. Letting go of Fawn. Letting go of home. Letting go of life, possibly.

_Ashe Illyrian, 14_

_District 11 Female_

"Hey, um, Brice? Can we talk?" Ashe asks, carefully tapping Brice on the shoulder.

Brice whips around and doesn't meet her eyes, leaning over the back of the couch with his head down. "Yeah, of course! Is everything okay? Are you okay? Are you sick? Are you dying? Is it Meadow? Do you want to talk about Meadow? Or is it Quinn? Is something wrong with Quinn? Is he bothering you? Funny, he never struck me as the type! Are you scared of the Games? Is that what you want to talk about? Because Meadow is probably a better choice for that because she's more experienced and better with children and—"

"No, no," Ashe says quickly. "It's about…something else."

"Something else?" Brice repeats quizzically. Ashe grabs him by the wrist and pulls him to his feet, listening to him ramble on as she drags him into his room. "What's wrong? Seriously, Ashe, as you okay or are you dying or are you sick or—"

Ashe closes the door behind them. "Okay, Brice, you know you don't have to talk so much, right?"

Brice blinks. "W-what?"

"I don't know what's up with you, but just know…I know that whatever you're doing isn't normal," Ashe says, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Haha, what are you talking about? What am I doing that isn't normal? Everything about me is normal, Ashe! I think that if anyone here isn't normal it's you, hehe! Because you're trying to tell me something is wrong with me and I promise there isn't anything and whatever is on your mind you can just talk to Meadow about because she's much better equipped for this and everything."

"I'm talking to _you_, Brice," Ashe says, forcing him to sit down on the bed. "I'm talking to you, about you."

"Haha, what about me—" Brice starts, but Ashe interrupts before he ever gets the chance.

She puts her hands on his shoulders and says, "Brice, the way you ramble isn't natural. My little brother talks a lot, and really fast, and I know how to follow these kinds of conversations. You can't fool me."

Brice stares her down for a moment. "I-I…"

"I want to help you," Ashe says sincerely. She isn't sure what's going on with Brice, but she can tell something is just _off_ with him. She's listened to every word that has come out of his mouth. She's heard every terrifying thing he's said since she came into his company, and carefully filed it away for future reference. It's started to bother her more and more, and today, she just couldn't take it anymore.

"Hahaha I don't need help I mean why would I ever need help everything is fine here nothing to be worried about I promise so you can go back to whatever you were doing before because I'm fine and there's nothing to worry about so you should just focus on surviving the next few weeks."

Ashe exhales sharply through her nose, beginning to wonder if, maybe, just _maybe_ she was wrong. She certainly hopes not. She's never liked being wrong. "Brice, I promise. Whatever you say will stay with me, and potentially die with me."

Brice cautiously looks up from where he was staring at his lap like it was the most interesting thing in the world. "I can explain."

"Take all the time you need," Ashe says, relieved. At least, just this once, she isn't wrong. "I'll listen."

Brice is silent for a moment, as if collecting his words and deciding what he's going to say. "Well…I wasn't ready to die when I got reaped, so I made a decision. And it's…it's haunted me ever since."

He keeps talking. He talks and he talks and he talks, but he isn't rambling. It's an explanation, Ashe can tell, and she listens, just as she promised. She listens, and doesn't interrupt, only asking questions when she feels it necessary.

Eventually, the whole, messy story comes out. How Brice feels that no one ever hears him. How no matter what he says, his words always seem to fall on deaf ears. How all he has ever needed is someone to talk to and someone who is willing to listen.

When he finishes, he looks up at Ashe and nervously locks eyes with her. "You…don't have to say anything. You don't even have to ever talk to me again if you don't want to—"

"No!" Ashe cries suddenly. "No—it's not that. I'm just…surprised. That's all."

"So you hate me then," Brice mumbles, getting to his feet. "I'll just go then. Thanks for listening."

"Brice, wait," Ashe says, reaching out and catching his sleeve before he can open the door. "You don't have to go anywhere. I don't hate you. I'm just amazed that anybody could ever keep all of that bottled up inside for so long without falling apart. I mean, I get having a hard time articulating your thoughts—but you sounded like you had everything you were going to say all planned out. I just don't get it. Why did you never tell anybody?"

Brice sighs and sits back down. "No one ever wants to listen."

"I did," Ashe says. "I always listen. It's…something I like to pride myself on."

The ghost of a smile graces Brice's lips. "Well, it means a lot. To me. It's been a long, long time since anyone has had interest in what I have to say."

"I'll listen for as long as I can."

"Don't…don't tell Quinn I said this, but if either of you are going to win, I hope it's you," Brice mumbles. "Because talking to you is nice."

Ashe grins. "I'll do my best."

As she leaves Brice's room, exactly what Brice said hits her with the force of a freight train.

Brice would rather she live over Quinn. Brice would rather see Quinn die than her, and it's all because she listened.

She listened. And she'll keep listening for as long as she's alive.

Just before she goes into her room, she spots Meadow and Quinn having a rather in-depth conversation at the dining table. She makes a decision as she walks over them and she says, "Do either of you mind if Quinn and I swap mentors? Like, I take Brice and Quinn can keep Meadow? Nothing against you, Meadow, it's just that you and Quinn seem to get along well and everything…"

"I don't mind," Meadow says after a moment. "Quinn?"

"It's…fine with me."

"Great!" Ashe exclaims, her grin returning to her lips. She bounds toward her room and yanks open the door. Maybe, just _maybe_, things will turn out okay for her.

And maybe it will be just because she offered to listen.

**A/N: Yeah, this chapter turned out a bit late since I've been fighting some serious writers' block recently. But I got it done! And that means that I have to write another training day…yay…**

**1\. Thoughts on Celinda's mentoring style?**

**2\. Thoughts on Tam and Afandina on the roof?**

**3\. Thoughts on Ashe and Quinn swapping mentors?**

**4\. Do you think things will turn out okay for Ashe?**

**Nobody guessed the name of my dog. I got a lot of Wonder and Mercury, but none of her actual name…which is Quinn. See, the reason I didn't give her gender if because I **_**knew**_** nobody would guess Quinn if I said that. **

**-Amanda**


	23. Of Monsters and Men

_Afandina Hariri, 17_

_District 10 Male_

_**(TW for attempted suicide)**_

Scarily enough, Afandina isn't sure he'd make it. Of course, it's all figurative—Afandina is plenty smart enough to realize that no one could jump off the tallest building in the Capitol and survive. That's not how physics and, like, gravity work. What goes up must come down and stuff.

But up until now, Afandina has been so certain that he was going to make it. That he would win, that he would be the sole survivor, and he could go and have more money than he knows what to do with. He always thought he could make the jump, that he could scale the cliff, make the kill, survive the seemingly-unsurvivable.

Now? Now, he's not so sure, and Afandina has always hated not being sure.

He's never been more unsure in his life, and there's no way to change that.

Well, there is one way. The only way to be sure is to win. He has to prove himself as the ultimate survivor to restore his confidence in himself. He's always been confident, been so, _so confident_. But confidence isn't enough. He's seen the Games before. He knows that people fall for being cocky…

…is he cocky? Is he over-confident?

He never thought so before. After all, everybody always said you should have a healthy amount of self-esteem, and Afandina always thought that he was a great person.

And he _is_ a great person, damnit! He just…might not be good enough to win the Hunger Games.

See, that's a question Afandina has always avoided:

_Is he good enough?_

He always thought he was _more_ than good enough. He always thought that he was the best of the best, a talented gambler, the luckiest man alive when it came to decks of cards, the one who was always ten steps ahead and knew exactly what to do to get there. He always knew how to get from here to there.

Now, he's somewhere in the middle, wandering aimlessly in search of some kind of Victory. He needs that kind of validation, but he doesn't know where to find it. He can't go gambling. He's not even allowed outside of the Tribute Center.

Suddenly, he becomes very, very aware of that fact. He's trapped. He's trapped in his little bedroom with its' big picture windows and perfectly clean bathroom. He's stuck in a nightmare and pinching him won't wake him up.

Maybe that's all this is. Just one big, long nightmare that he has yet to wake up from. It's a dizzying spiral from where he started, high and mighty, on top of the world, to here. Laying in a bed in the Capitol while the escort bangs on the door, demanding that Afandina go down to Training, hungover and contemplating his very existence as a person.

That must be what this is. Yes, soon he'll wake up at home, no dogs to walk, no farm animals to tend to, no Kyle to bother him…he'll go gambling, make some money, and revitalize his faith in himself.

Except he's not going to wake up. Deep down, he knows that. He's just too scared to admit that.

He is supposed to be the best. He's always _been_ the best. Afandina doesn't lose, he doesn't cheat, he doesn't give up, he doesn't do anything short of perfect. He doesn't know how to handle any of this. Who is he, without victories to show people? Who is he, without something to prove his worth?

Who is he?

Who _is_ Afandina Hariri?

Well, up until very recently, he was one of the most amazing people in Panem. He was smart and calculating and clever and quick-thinking and lucky and handsome and amazing.

But what is he now?

What has he ever been, if he was not the best?

Has he ever been the best?

_Yes!_ Afandina decides, sitting up. Of course he once was the best. Things just…change. He's not what he used to be. He's not what he thought he was.

God, how did he fall so hard?

Afandina gets to his feet and begins to pace. He's supposed to be the winner. He's always been the winner. Everybody around him _knows_ that he is supposed to be the winner.

But the way people looked at him when he was Reaped…did they ever really admire him, or were they just afraid of him? Which is better?

Well, Afandina doesn't want to be amazing because he's intimidating. He wants to amazing because he's the best. He wants people to admire him, want to _be _him, not cower in fear whenever he steps near them. That's not admiration. That's not what he wants.

So it begs the question: did anyone back in 10 ever think of him as a winner? Did they think he was a cheater? Did they think he somehow rigged his games so they would always turn in his favor?

It's a thought that has never crossed his mind before now. It's a thought he's never _wanted_ to cross his mind before now.

He's the best, damnit! He's always been the best, and if he isn't the best, what is he? Nothing! He's nothing! He's absolutely fucking nothing! He's nothing. He's…nothing. Absolutely…nothing.

Afandina can't take it anymore. He yanks open the door, shoves past the escort, and makes a break for the stairs. He takes them two at a time until he reaches the roof, out of breath but satisfied. He runs out onto the roof and reaches the edge in a matter of seconds, vaguely aware of the escort screaming at him down the stairwell.

If he's nothing, then he doesn't need to live. He doesn't need to be here. If he's not a winner, then what's the point of trying at all? What's to say that he doesn't just…jump, right now?

He said he would make it. But he won't. Nobody will. Certainly not him.

He's not the best. He's not the best. He's not the best. He used to be the best until he started to lose, until he started to fail, and now he's nothing at all. There's no point at all.

Afandina throws himself over the railing.

For a few, glorious seconds, he falls. Wind whips through his hair as he plummets, and he shuts his eyes. This is what he deserves. He deserves to die.

He's not the best. He's not a winner. He's a loser, a cheater.

But, as he falls, he's in control. He has control, and oh god does it feel amazing. He _loves_ control.

And, suddenly, he's back on the roof, sprawled out on his back with his escort screaming in his face.

"Fucking forcefield!" Afandina screams for the whole world to hear, angrily slamming his fist on the railing. It does nothing but make his fingers ache. He considers trying again until the escort clamps his hand around Afandina's arm and drags him down the stairs.

He practically throws Afandina into the elevator and slams the down button, leaving Afandina to screech and pound his fists against the metal doors.

After a few seconds of this, feeling hot tears welling in his eyes and not knowing how they got there, Afandina pauses.

No. He's better than this. He will rise above this…this…this _whatever it is_! He is better. He may not be the best, but nobody else needs to know that. To the world, he's still perfect. To Afandina, well…he's not much anymore.

_Geo Stryker, 15_

_District 12 Male_

He's taken to avoiding people like the plague.

If he doesn't interact with anybody, he doesn't have to worry about what to say or what to think or what they like or who he is or what he is or who he fucking is because he doesn't know anymore and if he doesn't know who does—

It's certainly not Geo. He doesn't know who he is anymore.

Well, he's not quite certain he ever knew who he was in the first place.

It's enough to leave him staring blankly at Sterne, Darwin and Mercury when they approach him to join their alliance. What do they want him to say? Well, they probably want him to say yes. They wouldn't ask him if they didn't want him to say yes. But how do they want to him to say it? Would Sterne want him to say it differently than Darwin would? What can he say that will make them like him? Is there anything he can say to make them like him?

"Um…" Sterne says, raising his eyebrows and waving a hand in front of Geo's face. "Anybody home?"

"Oh!" Geo says, too loudly. "I—uh, no. Um, no. I'm…I'm good on allies, thanks, or—or no thanks. Whatever. I'm going to stop talking now."

And he pivots on his heels and walks away, his legs moving as fast as they possibly can without breaking into a sprint.

What is _wrong with him_? If Sterne, Darwin and Mercury didn't hate him before, they one-hundred-percent do now! How is it possible for him to be such a screw-up? _How is any of this possible_?

Geo darts off to the bathroom, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure that Sterne, Darwin and Mercury aren't still staring at him. He finds Sterne and Mercury working to build some sort of shelter while Darwin lopsidedly throws knives. He breathes a sigh of relief only to remind himself that they still hate him.

He's just put a huge target on his back, for Panem's sake! If they hate him, they'll be more likely to want to kill him! You don't just say no to an alliance offer in the Hunger Games! All that does is make you more of a target!

Yet Geo did it. And while Sterne, Darwin and Mercury don't look like much of a threat, who knows what they could do with weapons? Darwin can't throw straight, but what if Sterne can? Mercury is from 7; what if he's good wit axes? How many ways can they kill him since they obviously have it out for him now since he rejected their alliance and holy shit he's going to die—

"Oh!"

Geo suddenly finds himself sprawled on the floor, looking up at the face of a boy with bright blond hair. "Um…"

"I wasn't watching where I was going," the boy continues, extending a hand to help Geo stand. "I'm just distracted." The boy shakes his head dejectedly.

Geo stares at it for a moment, as if expecting to contract a deadly disease simply by touching it. Should he take it? That's probably what the boy wants, right? He extends it so Geo will take it. But should he? He's pretty sure this boy is a tribute; he can't remember which one, but he's definitely seen his face before.

After a moment, Geo takes his hand and allows the boy to pull him to his feet. "Um…I should have watched where I was going too."

"Ha! I guess we're both distracted," the boy says. "Probably with different things, though—Geo, right? District 12?"

"Yes," Geo says, his words short and clipped. His idea of avoiding human contact has certainly fallen apart. "What district are you from?"

"Oh! I'm from the Capitol," the boy says, laughing and shaking his head. "Just got on break from University in 3, though. I'm Ezra."

Geo pauses for a moment. "Oh. I-I didn't mean to insinuate…" He trails off, unsure of where he's going with this. Ezra probably hates him now, too, since he thought he was from the districts…he's pretty sure that is a huge insult to most Capitolites. He just has to hope that Ezra views it differently. He certainly seems to act like he does but…

"No worries," Ezra says. "You know, I like you, Geo. I hope things go well for you in the Games."

"Oh. Oh!" Geo stammers. "Um, thank you. I should probably…go back to training, now."

"It was nice meeting you," Ezra says. "Good luck."

"Y-yeah…thanks." Geo closes the door of the bathroom in Ezra's face. He slumps against the wall, breathing out heavily. This is just his life now, is it? Being unable to hold a normal conversation? He doesn't know what he did to make Ezra like him, but he must have done something right.

But all he did was stammer and stumble over his words. He ran into the poor guy, for Panem's sake! He has every right to hate him…

…but does he?

Ezra said he liked him. He even wished him good luck in the Games! Who does that if they hate you? If Ezra hated him, wouldn't he have said so? If Ezra hated him, why would he have said he hopes the Games go well for him? If Ezra hated him, he probably would have said he hopes that Geo dies slowly and painfully.

So he obviously did _something_ right.

That begs the question of if Sterne, Darwin and Mercury _also_ hate him. He clearly did something that made Ezra like him, but he wasn't trying. He wasn't trying to make Sterne, Darwin and Mercury like him either, which just leaves him back at square one again.

Geo slowly and dejectedly gets to his feet. He opens the bathroom door and stalks out into the hallway, looking around carefully to make sure that Ezra has moved on.

As he steps out in the corridor proper, he glances behind him and realizes that he was in the girls' bathroom the whole time.

He heaves another sigh and starts back toward the Training Center. He can practically hear Ezra laughing at his stupidity from here.

_Darwin Abner, 15_

_District 3 Male_

"So, that didn't go as planned," Darwin comments nervously as he watches Geo scramble toward the bathroom. "Do you guys think we should go after him? Ask if he's okay, maybe?"

Sterne watches Geo's retreating back for a moment before he says. "I don't think it's worth bothering him again. He did say no, after all."

"Yeah, okay. You're right," Darwin agrees. "Are we still thinking of asking the boy from 11? He doesn't have any allies."

"I think he's being eyed by the Careers," Sterne answers. "I say it's not worth it. What do you think, Mercury?"

Mercury startles, seeming surprised to be addressed. "Oh…it's…I agree."

"Okay," Darwin says decisively. "So, we're going with just us, then? Unless there is anybody else you guys want to ask?" He surveys the Training Floor for a moment. "We could try the boy from 2? Or from 10?" He pauses again. "Come to think of it, where _is_ the boy from 10?"

At that moment exactly, the elevator doors open a few feet behind them, spilling a red-faced Afandina Hariri onto the Training Floor.

"Should I ask him?" Darwin whispers to Sterne. "I mean, he's right there and everything."

"Can't hurt," Sterne says, sounding uncertain. They both glance at Mercury, who shrugs, his eyes wide.

Darwin takes a deep breath and steps in Afandina's path. "Hey! I'm Darwin from 3 and those are my allies Sterne and Mercury and we're wondering if you might like to join our alliance? You can say no if you want to because I promise we won't hold it against you and—"

Suddenly Afandina's fist slams in Darwin's face, sending him toppling over in surprise. His head slams against the ground, making his vision spin and his head pulsate with pain. A wave of black crosses his vision and he screws his eyes shut in an attempt to avoid passing out.

"I don't need allies to survive, bitch," Afandina growls, stepping over Darwin and stalking away.

Darwin sits up, finding that the room has started spinning. He blinks rapidly and puts a hand up to his left eye, finding the skin around it wet with blood. _That's gonna bruise_, he thinks vaguely. It's certainly not the first time he's been punched in the face, and it probably won't be the last. He knows what a concussion feels like…

…at least, he's pretty sure. Right now, he can't really remember. Is that a symptom of concussions? Is Afandina strong enough to give him in a concussion with one punch? Shad or Bayou probably could, but Afandina? Darwin doesn't know much about him, but he's pretty sure he's not that strong. He doesn't exactly seem like the type to do recreational weight lifting. Maybe it's a side effect of slamming into the ground? That's probably part of it? Right?

"Darwin, are you okay?" Sterne exclaims, kneeling down in front of Darwin's face. Mercury crouches beside him, looking at Darwin's face with a slightly tilted head.

He sees Mercury's mouth open, but his ears start ringing loudly enough that he can't understand a word they're saying. So, probably a concussion, then? He did hit the ground pretty hard…and he knows that he's extra susceptible to concussions, since he's had them before…and it will probably go away before the Games start…

"I'm going to get one of the nurses," Sterne proclaims, jumping to his feet. He quickly disappears from Darwin's view, leaving Darwin trying to blink away the blur in his vision.

Spoilers: it doesn't work.

After some amount of time that seems to pass beneath Darwin's notice, Sterne returns accompanied by a woman with electric blue hair. The woman gets up in Darwin's face, probably looking for dilation in his pupils…right? That's part of concussions? Or is that just something that happens at the optometrists'…

"His pupils are dilated," the nurse says. "He's got a concussion. It's mild, but it's there."

"How do you treat a concussion?" Sterne asks. "I've never had one before."

"He'll have to sleep it off," the nurse says. "Of course, there's a certain protocol you have to follow to make sure the patient doesn't fall into a coma or worsen in condition, but he should be fine before the Games start."

"Right." Sterne shakes his head. "It's all about the Games."

"Yes," the nurse says. "I don't suppose one of you could go fetch his mentors, could you?"

"I'll go," Sterne volunteers, once again disappearing from Darwin's vision.

Darwin shuts his eyes and drops his head. His head is seriously starting to ache. It feels like his brain is clawing at his skull in a desperate attempt to escape. He should have never bothered to ask Afandina…but the blue-haired lady _did_ say he would be okay by the time the Games started…right? Yeah, he's pretty sure she said that…probably…going into the Games with a concussion would be a _serious_ problem…

Suddenly someone is snapping in his face, and after a moment he realizes that it's Thalia. "Darwin, can you stand? We're going to take you upstairs to rest."

"Okay," Darwin says, taking Thalia's extended hand. The room tilts dangerously once his feet are underneath him, and he probably would have toppled over again if Thalia didn't have her hand firmly on his shoulder.

He really is an idiot, isn't he? A reckless idiot. But, then again, didn't both Sterne and Mercury agree to asking Afandina? They probably should have ruminated longer, but what's done is done. What is punched is punched.

Thalia leads him to the elevator, making his head spin and pound. He leans heavily against the glass walls of the elevator, looking at Thalia with half-shut eyes. He feels tired. Like, really, _really_ tired. He wasn't tired before. He's _exhausted_ now. Like, he could probably pass out right now…

"Darwin!"

"W-what?"

Oh. Maybe he _did_ actually pass out. Momentarily, but he's okay now. Totally fine.

"Come on, Darwin. You can go sleep on the couch," Thalia says, putting her hand back on his shoulder and leading him out of the elevator. She brings him to the couch, telling him to lay down, and that she'll wake him up in an hour to make sure he hasn't fallen into a coma.

It doesn't make him feel very confident, but the need to close him eyes and stop existing for a while overpowers any qualms he has about falling asleep. He lets his head drop back against the couch cushions, sending a small pulse of pain coursing through his body.

A few moments later, he drifts off to sleep, wishing that none of this had ever happened.

_Bayou Hacksom, 18_

_District 4 Male_

He is not having a good day.

Or a good week.

The last few days, ever since he volunteered, have actually been pretty shitty. As if he wasn't already unsure about the Games, the mess that is the Career alliance has been putting him further on edge. They're all nervous, he can tell, but the whole thing has just upset his brain. His head just feels muddled, overloaded. It's not that there's too much information to process, it's just that he cannot stop worrying. What's going to happen to him? What's going to happen to the rest of the Careers? What's going to happen once they enter the arena? Will they all turn on each other? Or will they somehow decide to play nice and stay off of each other's nerves?

"So, there's a lot we need to debate," Calista says as she sits heavily at the table the Careers staked out the day before. She meets the eyes of each of them before she continues. "First of all, we need to agree to a compromise. At least, we need to truce, for a while. We can kill each other all we want in the arena, but right now, we need to play nice. So, I say we should elect a leader. And—" she eyes Ottilie annoyedly. "—each of us gets a vote, and you can't vote for yourself. Seem fair?"

"Good with me," Scoria says, looking at Shad out of the corner of her eyes. "I'll vote for Calista."

Ottilie rolls her eyes. "I'm not voting for anybody."

"Fine, then," Calista says. "I'll vote for Scoria."

Scoria raises an eyebrow at Calista but, apparently, decides to keep her mouth shut.

Bayou takes in a deep breath and adds his two cents in. "I'll…go fer Calista."

She's the best option, right? He knows that they will all turn on him with a moment's notice, but Calista seems like the most trustworthy out of all of them. Scoria seems intelligent, but something about her rubs him the wrong way. Ottilie is obviously not an option. Shad seems skilled but at the same time…not the right option. And then there's himself, who he can't vote for, wouldn't vote for, and shouldn't be voted for. He may have been chosen as the volunteer against all odds, but he's certainly not a natural-born leader. He doesn't feel bad about that, since it's only the truth. He's just not a leader. But you don't have to lead in order to win.

"Alright, Shad?" Calista says.

Shad doesn't answer, instead just angrily jabbing his fork into a pile of mashed potatoes.

"Shad," Calista says warningly. "Play nice."

Shad wrinkles his nose at her and scoots further left in his seat. "Scoria."

"We can't have two leaders," Bayou pipes up. "Right? Havin' two leaders?"

They can't make decisions easily with two leaders. Especially since he figures Scoria and Calista are going to have differing views on what's best for the Careers. All of the options seem like people to look out for their own self-interest, but Calista is…not Scoria? Calista is the safe bet.

"Why do we need a leader at all?" Ottilie growls, crossing her arms indignantly like the child she is. "Why don't we just vote on everything?"

"Coming from somebody who thought she was the leader without giving anyone else a voice," Calista says, raising an eyebrow. "Well, Ottilie, time to cast your vote. We're split down the middle, so whatever you decide goes."

_A terrible decision, really_, Bayou thinks.

Ottilie's eyes jump from Calista to Scoria for a moment. "And if I, say, vote for Bayou or Shad?"

"Then we'll replace you," Scoria says curtly.

"Yeah, right," Ottilie says, once more rolling her eyes. "Like you'd ever do that."

"Anybody can be replaced, Blackwell," Scoria says in a low voice. "_Anybody_."

"Fine, then. Calista." Ottilie grabs her tray and stands up. "I vote for Calista."

After a moment of silence as they all watch Ottilie march over to the trash can, Calista takes a deep breath and says, "Well, that settles it, then." She eyes each of them before she continues. "So, this is our alliance. Nothing more, nothing less, right?"

"Right," Bayou agrees, nodding firmly. He'd be lying if he said he isn't afraid to fall asleep next to Shad or Ottilie, but he supposes he'll have to get used to it.

This alliance just feels different than what he was expecting. Back in District 4, when they would watch past Games to figure out better strategies and learn what not to do, the Careers always seemed so formidable. They seemed like they got along well enough and weren't constantly at each other's throats.

Maybe this is just different. It's been different for the past few years. After all, Wake, Coin, Cash, Myrian, Brookley and Ariella were doing their best to not murder each other in their sleep. The girl Careers and the boy Careers weren't even one alliance the year after that. Azariah, Ilyanna, Nyroc, Stella, Reef and whatever outliers they could drag up did nothing but hunt for Vin, and they didn't even succeed.

As it turns out, this year will be no different. They'll be lucky if half of the Careers get out of the Bloodbath alive.

Bayou is no exception. To say that he isn't afraid of Ottilie turning on him and throwing a spear into his back in the first five minutes of the Games would be a lie. Maybe one of the biggest lies Bayou would ever tell.

He's always thought of himself as a man of honesty. He's never been very good at lying, and he's never really liked lying in the first place. It's always been his philosophy that when you had a choice between being honest and being nice, you should choose honesty.

But he's seen many a tribute lie their way to Victory. They would tell lie after lie after lie, until eventually it became as easy as breathing for them.

Bayou doesn't want that to happen. He's always said he would do whatever it takes to win…

…but when push comes to shove, would he? Would anyone? Some people would certainly be willing to lie and cheat and claw their way out of the arena, but would he? He doesn't want the arena to make a monster out of him, but it seems to change everyone eventually. Would it even be possible to stay stagnant through his time in the Games? Or will he concede and become a monster just like everyone else? After all, no good person ever wins the Games.

Well, he'll let the arena make a corpse out of him before it will make a monster.

_Ishtar Marmaduke, 18_

_District 12 Female_

It's not what she expected.

Don't get her wrong; she's still back with Jayce, which makes her happy but…it's not the reunion she thought she was getting. She thought she would be back with her girlfriend, happy for just a few days before they entered the Games together. She thought, that if she was going to volunteer to die for Jayce, that Jayce would still be…

…well, Jayce.

Well, it's not that she's not "Jayce" anymore. She's still Jayce Dotter, the beautiful girl that was born in District 12 whom Ishtar fell in love with so many years ago.

But something is off. It doesn't feel the same.

It's wrong! Ishtar should be _happy_! She's with Jayce again, even if Jayce has changed a bit since they last saw each other! Of course she's going to have changed; they've been apart for so long! It's completely unrealistic for her to have expected Jayce to have stayed the exact same as she was when they parted.

But it just doesn't feel the same. It's different, some way, somehow. Ishtar doesn't know how, doesn't understand what's changed, but she knows it's different. It feels like Jayce is walking on eggshells around her. It's clear that Jayce's opinion of Ishtar has changed.

Ishtar doesn't like that.

She didn't like being a part from Jayce in the first place, but now that they are reunited, it's almost worse. It's worse knowing that Jayce might have…what? Fallen out of love? Come out as asexual? Whatever it is, Ishtar wants to fix it. Can she fix it? Well, if Jayce is ace, there's not much she can do. But if Jayce has fallen out love…can she make her fall back into love? In just a few days, no less?

She's willing to try.

She's willing to do whatever it takes to bring Jayce back. She just wants her love back. All she wants is her Jayce back.

"I'm gonna dash off to the bathroom, okay?" Jayce says, spurring Ishtar from her thoughts.

Ishtar looks up from her tangle of ropes and knots. "Mm. Okay. See you."

Jayce purses her lips before getting to her feet and heading off to the bathroom. Ishtar watches her go, her eyes dancing on Jayce's retreating back, wondering if there's anything she can do to fix this. She just wants everything to go back to the way it was before that stupid intelligence program ruined her life. If only she could turn back time, just a few years, so she could have her Jayce back. She wishes she could go back to her birthday, when she and Jayce stargazed and made out on the couch.

Her hands work tirelessly on her various knots, but it's clear that her heart isn't in it. She stares off into space, her eyes dancing on different tributes throughout the Training Center. The boy from 9 is throwing knife after knife after knife at a target. The boys from 4 and 1 are sparring. The girls from 11, 9 and 3 are learning how to treat stab wounds. The girls from 5 and 10 are sitting on a bench beside each other and holding hands.

Ishtar's sight pulses red when she looks at Tamarah and Liesel. They're happy, somehow. Somehow, they seem to have just fallen right into love.

And it makes her _sick_.

Why do they get to be happy when she's stuck here, with someone who may or may not still love her? Why do they get to be sitting there holding hands, probably whispering sweet nothings to each other, while Ishtar is waiting for Jayce to keep loving her?

It's not fair.

It's not fair, and there isn't a damn thing Ishtar can do about it. If she could change the past, she would in a heartbeat.

She clenches her hands around her tangle of ropes, practically shaking with anger. What have Tamarah and Liesel done to deserve happiness when Ishtar is _right here_? Doesn't she deserve love as much as they do? Shouldn't she get to have her Jayce like Tamarah gets to have her Liesel?

_What has she done wrong_?

She spots Jayce returning from the bathroom and shakes her head at her own stupidity. It's not regret. She doesn't regret coming here. She doesn't regret volunteering to be with Jayce again. It's just disappointment.

Disappointment in the fact that it's not what she thought it was.

Disappointment in the fact that Jayce isn't who she thought she was.

Disappointment in the fact that nothing will be ever be the same again.

Disappointment in the fact that her love is…over?

Is it over? Is this just the end of her and Jayce's seemingly-endless romance? She had been so certain that everything would just turn out fine, that she and Jayce would reunite and immediately start making out. That they would just go back to the way they had been years ago.

She was blind.

Well, she's not blind anymore. She's opened her eyes to the fact that maybe Jayce never even loved her in the first place. Maybe she was wrong the whole time, and the girl she loves to the ends of Panem never loved her back at all.

She can see the truth now. She understands that everything is different now.

"I ran into this weird blond guy outside the bathroom," Jayce says as she settles down next to Ishtar. "He wished me luck in the Games, blah, blah, blah, introduced himself as "Ezra". Ever heard of him? He said he was the president's nephew."

"I didn't know the president had a nephew," Ishtar replies. "And I don't know anybody named Ezra."

"Well, let's hope that his wishing luck pays off, huh?" Jayce says with a small laugh. She looks at her lap, her eyes downcast and sorrowful before she says, "You know, for one of us."

"For one of us," Ishtar agrees. She wonders which one of them it will be. She wonders which one of them will fall first. If it's Ishtar, what will Jayce say? Will she mourn? Or will she move on, like she apparently already has? Or perhaps she hasn't? Perhaps she's still holding on, and Ishtar's death will lead to hers as well?

But…if Jayce dies first…what will Ishtar do? She still loves her to the moon and back, and always will. Even if Jayce is dead, she'll love her all the same. No matter what it is that Jayce does, no matter who she kills, no matter who she hurts and lies to and cheats and manipulates, Ishtar will love her all the same.

She will love her all the same, no matter what.

_Liesel Leenheer, 17_

_District 5 Female_

It hurts, knowing that she's probably going to die. It hurts, knowing that Noor is going to win in the end. It hurts, it hurts so much, but it hurts less when she's in someone else's arms. Tam isn't Noor, not even as gentle as Dyna, but it's better than nothing. Tam has strong hands and broad shoulders—Liesel feels safe when Tam is holding her. They're compatible. They're believable. They make sense, too personalities that could fall quickly and stupidly into love right before they both go in the Hunger Games.

The Capitol will just gobble them up, especially once Liesel tells them that her awful ex Noor cheated on her. She just doesn't have to tell them when. They'll only like her if they know she isn't being petty for the sake of being petty.

"Have you noticed the girl from 12 seems to staring at us an awful lot?" Tam whispers, squeezing Liesel's hands.

Liesel looks up and, sure enough, the girl from 12 is staring them down from the knot-tying station. The girl from 6 is chatting about something or another, but Ishtar doesn't seem to be paying attention. "That's creepy."

"She and the girl from 6 seem like quite the pair, don't they?" Tam continues, looking at Liesel with those deep hazel eyes. "There's certainly something off about their dynamic."

"Where isn't something off here?" Liesel asks, not expecting nor wanting an answer. "Everything's fucked up. Aren't they just another tick on the list?"

"Well, you're not wrong," says Tam. "We're all just another tick on the list."

Liesel runs a finger through one of the grooves on the metal bench they're sitting on, knee-to-knee, still hand-in-hand. "Yeah."

The afternoon starts to drag into evening as darkness peeks in through the windows near the ceiling. It, oddly, makes Liesel thinks of the roof of her family's building, where if you craned your neck you could see the stars. She figures you can always see the stars in District 10. There's no buildings or factories to obscure your view of the sky.

"Did you hide the keys?" Liesel asks quietly, re-entwining her free hand with Tam's.

"Did I ever." Tam grins. "I threw them off of the roof."

Liesel feels a small pang at the thought of her being unable to return them in the eventuality that she does, in fact, claim Victory. Instead of voicing that concern, she simply bursts out laughing. "Nice!"

"I figured you'd be impressed," Tam agrees. "So, Liesel—what's your opinion on alcohol? I'm a bit of a—fanatic, for lack of better word—myself."

Liesel's parents had this huge wine cabinet that she and Tena liked to raid when they were little kids. At first, they would never drink any, instead just put it in fancy glasses and have tea parties, but by the time Liesel was of Reaping age, they'd gotten pretty tipsy together several times. It's not like it was their fault their parents went to so many dinners, stayed out late, and didn't lock up their wine.

But Liesel has never encountered anything outside of the high-quality red wine her parents liked to display. She's never had real beer, never touched a bottle of scotch or vodka. "Well…I've had wine. Does that count?" She laughs a little at the end of her sentence, trying to make it seem less sad.

"Sure does," says Tam. "I like my wine just as much as I like my hard liquor. I mean, back home, me and my buds spent our lives either perpetually drunk or perpetually hungover."

Liesel decides to ignore Tam's misuse of grammar, finding it oddly endearing. "That hardly sounds like a way to live."

But has Liesel been living any better? It feels like she's been dedicating her entire existence to pissing off Noor. Maybe it made sense at first. Maybe people could understand at first. But by now, everyone back home is starting to think she should have moved on by now. And if she gets home, what is she going to do? Just go back to doing what she always did? She doesn't want to get back with Dyna. She doesn't even want to see Noor at all, not anymore.

"It's my way," Tam says with a careless shrug. "It's just how I work. If I get back home—" Tam blinks hard before she continues. "—it's probably how I'll go back to living. Old habits die hard, ya know?"

"Yeah, I guess," Liesel agrees, staring at her lap.

It doesn't sound like a very good quality of life to Liesel. She can't imagine spending her entire life in a haze, but at the same time, the past few months have been exactly that. A haze. A blur of pettiness and anger. She's been going out of her way to make Noor angry, to make Noor regret cheating, to make Noor's life miserable, yet she herself has hardly lived a second.

She may as well have died when she caught Noor in bed with Iona O'Hare, since she's pretty much stopped living ever since.

"How about we talk about something more cheerful?" Liesel suggests, fighting to keep any sign of nervousness out of her voice. She's not nervous. She's not anything. She's just fine, thanks. "Like…um, what's your favorite color?"

Tam eyes her oddly but answers nonetheless. "Burgundy. Yours?"

"Purple," says Liesel. "What's your favorite, um, animal?"

And they go around and around and around like that, Liesel asking some little inconsequential question. They both answer them, still sitting on the bench hand-in-hand until no sunlight reaches the windows and the other tributes are filing into the elevator.

Liesel gets to her feet, still holding onto one of Tam's hands. Tam has a seriously strong grip. "So…I'll see you tomorrow morning, then. Maybe we'll discuss our private sessions."

"Yep," Tam says. "See ya tomorrow."

Tam weaves through the remaining tributes until she finds her district partner, leaving Liesel standing alone in the middle of a crowd of teenagers who could kill her. Her eyes land on Tam once again, wondering if she's truly trustworthy. An alcoholic who is willing to fake a romantic relationship at the drop of a hat…maybe it wasn't a very good decision to basically put her life in Tam's hands, but she can't stomach going back. Liesel isn't sure that she could stomach hurting another girl who she is supposed to love. And if Tam is really who she says she is and has no ulterior motives…well, Liesel doesn't want to hurt her when she could be dead in just a few days.

Liesel could be dead in just a few days. She knows that, doesn't really fear it, but at the same time doesn't want to die.

She crams into the elevator with the pairs from 1, 7, 11 and the girl from 3. She's not sure where her district partner is—maybe with his ally that got she's pretty sure got punched in the face—but she can't say she doesn't mind him not being here. One less person she has to worry about. One less person she has to mourn for when they're dead.

**A/N: Boy oh boy did this chapter take me a while. I was showing off my expert procrastinating skills this time, since I just kept telling myself that I'd work on it tomorrow and go play Animal Crossing today. **

**1\. Thoughts on everything Afandina did?**

**2\. Thoughts on Ezra being back?**

**3\. Will Darwin's injury inhibit him in the Games?**

**4\. Are the Career less screwed than before?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: what is your favorite color? (I've probably asked this before but whatever)**

**My answer: anything on the spectrum from green to blue to purple. Like, literally anything in that general vicinity. **

**ALLIANCES:**

_**We're Still Extremely Volatile This Year:**_** Shad (D1M), Calista (D1F), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M), Ottilie (D4F)**

_**Flower Power: **_**Lana (D3F), Eris (D7F), Lyndie (D8F), Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)**

_**Sad Lesbians: **_**Jayce (D6F), Ishtar (D12F)**

_**Disaster Lesbians: **_**Liesel (D5F), Tam (D10F)**

_**5'6 Gang: **_**Darwin (D3M), Sterne (D5M), Mercury (D7M)**

**So, next up is night number three, which if all goes well, should be out either today or tomorrow. The POVs I have planned should be easy to get done. **

**-Amanda**


	24. Time's A-Wasting

_Lyndie Franklin, 12_

_District 8 Female_

To say that Lyndie is afraid would be an understatement. It feels wrong to sit here across from Koren, Travers and her escort, Nikita, when in just a few days, she could be dead. Navarro is locked in his room, and judging by the occasional thumping, is throwing things at the wall. Perhaps it would be amusing if Lyndie wasn't petrified of her District partner.

After all, he did stab someone yesterday, and not even out of self-defense. That's called being crazy, if you ask Lyndie.

Not only is that a mess, but it only gets worse if you give Lyndie a once-over. Sure, she's still the same twelve-year-old girl who was Reaped in District 8, yet you can't help but notice the green cast on her arm. It's not that it hurts or anything; it's the fact that she was already going into the Games with a disadvantage—one of the youngest tributes in the entire competition—and is now even worse off than before. It's certainly not a good feeling. Not at all.

A trio of Avoxes—Avoxes of scarily similar heights to Lyndie herself—serve their dinner. Lyndie pays the food no second thought, instead her gaze lingering on the retreating backs of the Avoxes, wondering what their stories may be. What would get someone so young stuck as a silent servant—no, a silent _slave_ for the rest of time?

Eventually her gaze is torn from their backs and she looks down at their meal. Her eyes tiredly peruse the food; it doesn't feel like home. The table is quiet. None of her brothers are here to have something interesting to say. There's more food on her plate than she could ever hope to eat. She's pretty sure that it's Henry's night to lead their prayer.

Lyndie bows her head over her meal and mouths her own prayer.

"Dear God," she mouths silently. "thank you for this meal that I am about to eat. I know that some of these things are out of even your power, but…if you can, help me in any way possible. Please?" She shuts her eyes for a moment. "Amen."

She picks up her fork and grabs a bite of steak. The piece is halfway to her mouth when Koren says,

"Lyndie? What were you doing?"

Lyndie looks up suddenly. "Nothing, nothing." The words fall out of her mouth too quickly, too loudly—in this case, Lyndie doesn't know who she can trust. She knows what the Capitol thinks of religion of any kind. She doesn't know if she can trust Koren, Travers or Nikita. Nikita is probably a no—Lyndie has heard that most people from the Capitol are loyal to a fault—but Koren and Travers might be…trustworthy? Lyndie isn't quite sure, but she's not exactly in the market to be risking it right now. She's at enough of a disadvantage as is. "Just…zoning out."

Lyndie has never liked lying. She's been raised to always tell the truth, but in this situation…unfortunately, lying could save her life. She also doesn't like hiding a part of her—religion has always been important to Lyndie, despite the fact that she has had to hide her faith for her entire life.

She eats another few bites of steak, staring at her lap all the while.

"Lyndie?" Koren says again.

Lyndie looks up to find all three of the adults at the table staring back at her; her eyes jump back to her food, acting as if her green beans have suddenly become the most interesting in the world. "Yes?"

"You were mouthing things earlier." Koren sets down her fork. "What were you mouthing?"

Lyndie turns bright red and continues staring at her food. The last thing she needs right now is to get in trouble… "I was praying."

"Praying?" Nikita says in her silly, shrill voice. "To what?"

"To God," Lyndie mumbles, her eyes remaining resolutely on her green beans.

"What?" Travers says. Lyndie can't quite tell if he heard her and is horrified, or if he didn't hear her at all…but for a split-second, it doesn't matter. She's been hiding this for her whole life, running from the Capitol with their backwards beliefs, and if she's going to die, she's going to die with no secrets holding her down.

"I was praying to God!" Lyndie cries, her head whipping up. She looks Travers directly in the eyes and clenches her fist. It's not his fault that religion is outlawed. It's not his fault that Lyndie has been hiding. But in this moment, this one, awful moment, Lyndie finds herself unable to care. "Not the Capitol, not the president—I was praying to God. We call it saying grace; ever heard of it? Anyone got a problem with that?"

Travers, Koren and Nikita all seem shocked by Lyndie's outburst. Lyndie herself is surprised by her own anger, but it's slightly deserved, isn't it? She's spent her entire life hiding her beliefs in shadows. Doesn't she deserve to tell _someone_ about it before she dies? Lyndie always thought of herself as an open book; she always told people she had no secrets to hide. Aside from the largest one, the only one she ever had to lie about, she had no secrets to keep.

Without waiting for any of them to speak, Lyndie powers to her feet and stalks out onto the balcony. The evening summer air washes over her as she slams the door shut, leaning moodily on the railing. She rests her chin on her free hand, staring down at the streets of the Capitol, far below her. _It must be so nice to be down there_, she muses. _They don't have to worry about anything. None of them are going to be dead in two days._

It only makes her heart ache for home worse. She finds herself wondering what everyone back in 8 are doing. In the few hours she used to go to school, do her classmates miss her? Do they wonder if they will ever see her again, or are they certain that she is a goner? What of the people from her church? Of her family, her friends?

The world continues to go on around Lyndie. She knows that. She knows that the world back home didn't just stop existing because she came here. The world stops for no man, and Lyndie is no exception. Time has always passed, has always walked all over her. It presses down upon her, weighing on her shoulders, a constant reminder of what she has lost and what she could gain.

_Tick, tock._

She straightens her posture, once again clenching her fists. Well, she's done. She's done letting anything push her around. She's ready to take control of things.

The clock is chiming. Time is counting down, slowly ticking away the seconds left that Lyndie has to live. Well, she's having none of it. It doesn't matter if she dies in two days or two decades. She is done with letting the world pass her by.

_Tick._

Yet, at the same time, a different voice in her head reasons that there's nothing she can do. What can a twelve-year-old with a broken arm do to win the Hunger Games? It doesn't matter what she does; a tiny twelve-year-old with a broken arm could never win the Hunger Games.

_Tock. _

_Tick._

_Tock. _

Lyndie shuts her eyes and listens to the sounds of the Capitol. It continues to carry on around her, cars honking in indignation, parties raging all night long, music blaring at all hours. It never ends. It never ends. It never ends.

It never ends, but Lyndie is okay with that.

Well, maybe not quite yet. But she's still got two days to figure it out. She can make amends. She can learn to accept that the world will continue to live on without her. Her family will move on, her friends will make new friends, her classmates will meet new students.

At first that scares her, probably more than should. But…the world has to keep spinning. She may be gone, but the world won't be.

It doesn't scare her anymore.

_Tick. _

She's ready to fight. She's not afraid. She may die, but that doesn't mean she has to go down without a fight. She doesn't want to take any lives, but that doesn't mean that she has to go down quietly. Her life doesn't have to end like this.

_Tock._

She'll still die, but she'll die with dignity.

_Everett Reed, 17_

_District 9 Male_

_There is always more work. There is always more work. There is always more work. _

…until there isn't.

He can't just…just…just _sit_ _here_! In two days—_two days_—he'll be in the Games. Hell, he could be _dead_ in that amount of time. Like, dead, dead. Deader than dead. He would just cease to exist and, well…what's left if he's dead?

What's left in the first place?

If he wins, he'll have enough money to put more food on the table than they could ever eat. He'll never have to work again. If he wins, he'll never have to go back to the fields with his judgmental coworkers again. If he wants, he would never have to look upon a field of grain or a scythe ever again. He could just sit around his house in the Victors' Village and do nothing.

_There is always more work. _

Except when there isn't.

Everett gets to his feet, mentally revising his mantra.

_There is never enough work. _

It's the truth, isn't it? There's never enough for him to do. There's never enough money, enough food, enough time. Everett, no matter how little he would like to admit it, can only do so much. There are only so many hours in a day, only so many jobs to be completed, only so many commands to be carried out.

Everett's hands dig into his hair as he paces back and forth across his room in the dark, the nearly-see-through curtains pulled down over the windows in the vain attempt to block out the world. The world doesn't need to see this. The world doesn't need to see him. The world doesn't need to know. Nobody does.

By this point, Everett has practically blazed a trail through the short carpet with his vigorous and near-constant pacing. He can't sit down. He can't stop moving. He can barely snatch a few hours of sleep, because every moment he spends in bed is one less moment he has before the Games begin, one less moment he has to learn, one less moment he has to train, to work, to _live_.

Time is running out, and Everett is hyper aware of that fact. His grip tightens, his nails digging painfully into his scalp as his feet continued to slap against the carpet. Each second that ticks away is one less that he has.

The moment he stops moving, it feels like he's giving up. It feels like, to stop, to sit and think and just breathe and exist, that he's giving up. That he's letting go of everything; of the world, of his life, of his siblings back home, of doing anything to help them.

He yanks open the door and stalks past the empty couch and dining table. He assumes that both Gracyn and Iara have already gone off to bed. Ainsley is nowhere to be seen, but that certainly doesn't bother Everett. He's always had a soft spot for little kids, but Ainsley makes it…difficult.

Everett steps into the elevator and realizes he doesn't know where to go. He can't go into the Training Center. Trust him, he's tried. The doors refuse to open until six a.m. on the Training Floor. He surveys the keypad and decides the best option is the Gamemaking floor. It's midnight. Absolutely nobody will still be working at this late of an hour, right?

He takes a gamble and presses the button.

As the elevator descends the Tribute Center, Everett continues to pace through the tiny carriage, unable to stop moving. If he stops moving, then he's wasting time, and if he's wasting time, he's wasting his life, and if he's wasting his life, he's letting Tricia and Tanner go hungry, and if he lets Tricia and Tanner go hungry, what kind of big brother is he? He's supposed to be there for them. He'll just have to get home to them, and they'll never have to go hungry again…

…and he'll never have to go to work again…

He steps out of the elevator onto the darkened Gamemaking floor. He starts walking down the long corridor, walking past closed door after closed door. Curious, he reads the names emblazoned on the doors, wondering if they managed to misspell those as well.

_Angelique Aberdeen, Head of Arena Construction. Aubrianna Wickham, Head of Arena Events. Caius Hearst, Mutt Specialist. _

Everett pauses outside Caius's office, which a sliver of light and the drawl of voices is spilling from. He tunes into the conversation, curious as to what a Gamemaker would have to talk about in the middle of the night.

"What is the meaning of this meeting? You told me I was supposed to speak with Mr. Euphemia—"

"Well, you're not. Oh, and have you met my assistant, Sidra?"

"No. I have never seen this woman before in my life."

"Yes, well. Caius, I do believe you are the Mutt Specialist on the Gamemaking team, yes?"

"Of course I am. I just don't see what this has to do with anything."

Everett, confused, cocks his head to side as he takes a step closer to the nearly closed door.

"I'm going to ask a favor of you, Caius. I have big, big plans that are going to be put into action very, very soon, and I need your help with some clean-up. First of all, you know the District 12 male, Mr. Geo Stryker?"

"Yes."

"I need you to ensure that he is dealt the most painful, gruesome death in the past fifty years of Hunger Games."

Everett's eyes widen. This guy is trying to kill one of the tributes? And why the guy from District 12? What's special about him? It's not really that it bothers Everett that it's Geo; he'd just like to know so he can avoid doing something that will piss this guy off. Better Geo than him, right?

"What!?"

"You heard me, Caius. This tribute—this, "Geo Stryker"—was extremely, let's say, _rude_ to me earlier today. I ran into him in the hallway and he…he mistook me for district _scum_, Caius. He thought I was a _tribute_."

"Oh, the humanity."

"Do not toy with me, Caius! I have an extensive network of Snow sympathizers and loyalists, and any one of them would _love_ to take out a hit for me!"

_Snow sympathizers? Loyalists? What is this guy talking about?_

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"I-it will be done. He'll…he'll be dead."

"Good. With my plans coming up, I can't risk someone so disrespectful gaining Victory. Now, onto what else you owe me…"

Everett takes another step forward, casting a shadow over the sliver of light that escapes from office.

"Wait."

Everett freezes, staring at his shoulder.

"There's someone outside the door."

Everett whirls around, pressing himself against the wall. His breaths start to come in quick succession at the thought of if this crazy guy finds him out and tells Caius to give him a gruesome, mutt-based death as well. He can't chance it. He has to run. Now.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart, and takes off running. He reaches the end of the hallway and starts pressing the up button on the elevator, over and over and over again, as the door behind him bursts open.

"Hey! Stop!"

The elevator dings and the doors pull open. Everett all but throws himself inside, pulling his body to the side to hopefully stay mostly out of view, and quickly presses a random button. The doors slide closed and the elevator moves upward at an almost leisurely pace. It's no slower than usual, but to Everett, with adrenaline pumping through his veins, it feels like it's pulling itself through glue.

After a moment, the doors ding again and open on whatever floor Everett pressed. He stumbles into the room, hearing the sounds of people running up the stairs—_stairs, why didn't he think of that_—leading him to look around, as if waiting for someone to leap out of the couch cushions and shoot him in the chest.

"Come on! They should be up here—"

Everett starts looking around for a different reason: a place to hide. At last he dives under the dining table, hoping the many chair legs will conceal him well enough.

The door to the stairs slams open. Everett watches two pairs of shoes stalk into the living area, searching for something—_him_—in the dark.

"I can't believe you didn't even lock the door."

"I'm sorry, _Your Majesty_."

"You think I'm kidding about the loyalists and sympathizers, don't you?"

"No, sir."

"That's what I thought." The smaller pair of shoes—some kind of combat boots—kicks the side of the couch. "God! I can't believe that someone was _there_. A tribute, no less! But they must be one of those tributes in there—" Everett assumes that he points at the doors leading to the tributes' rooms. "—so, to kill two birds with one stone, let's just say that neither of them make it out of the bloodbath with their lives, 'kay, Caius?"

"You're insane—!"

"I can kill you in an instant, Caius. I think I'd watch my mouth, if I were you."

"You're bluffing."

"I absolutely am not. You have no _idea_ how much control I have over you, Caius. Need I remind you of…?"

"No! No! We're good here. They'll be dead. Yep. Yep."

"Good. We're done here. Come, let's finish our meeting. Hopefully Sidra will still be there…"

Everett watches the four shoes disappear into the elevator, but remains crouched uncomfortably below the dining table for much, much longer. He feels like he can't move. Is he supposed to do something about this? Is he supposed to tell someone that Caius and Combat Boots are trying to rig the outcome of the Games? And what about those "big, big plans" that Combat Boots mentioned?

Because the way Everett sees it, if Geo is marked for slaughter as well as whatever pair of tributes reside on this floor, that's three less people that Everett has to cut down. And, he doesn't want to get on that Combat Boot's bad side. If he can stay out of dodge, then he will. Simple as that.

Eventually, Everett crawls out from underneath the table and takes the stairs. He doesn't count how many flights he walked up. He doesn't check what floor he left. He just keeps going until he reaches Floor 9.

When he returns to his bedroom, with its stupid misspelled name, sunlight is slowly, slowly peeking through the paper-thin curtains. He takes a deep breath and drops onto his bed, for once, feeling no need to move. He'll probably be up and pacing in ten minutes, but all he needs right now is to know that someone else will take the fallout for his mistakes.

Is it a good feeling? No.

Does he care that someone else will die because of his mistakes?

Also no.

**A/N: I'm still not religious, but my mom said that what I had Lyndie praying was okay. So I hope I didn't offend anybody with it, because I promise that was not my intention. **

**Also, Everett's POV ran long, so I tried to make Lyndie's longer to compensate, so I hope that Lyndie's wasn't really boring or overly wordy. **

**1\. How do you think Lyndie will fare in the Games?**

**2\. Do you think telling Travers and Koren what she was doing was a good idea?**

**3\. What floor do you think Everett hid on?**

**4\. What floor do you **_**hope**_** Everett hid on?**

**-Amanda**


	25. Everyone Bleeds the Same

_Everett Reed, 17_

_District 9 Male_

After roughly four hours laying awake in his bed after spending the evening curled up under a table does not make someone feel good.

Everett is pretty sure he looks like death itself, too—dark rings under his eyes, half shut eyelids, sagging shoulders. He's dragging his feet across the Training Floor, wondering what to do with his morning. The private sessions are this afternoon, and he has next to no idea what to do during them.

Everett is someone who likes to have a plan. He doesn't like going into things blind, whether the plan he haphazardly put together is good or not. As long as he has something to go off of, some semblance of a plan to follow, he'll be okay.

To Everett, the last thing that he has on his mind is the private sessions. He has to admit that he isn't particularly skilled with much. Well, he can use a scythe. That would be a good place to start.

So, a new purpose in his step, Everett makes his way toward the weapons station and picks up the only scythe they have on hand. The brand new, never used metal feels strange in his hands. After all, nothing in District 9 is ever new.

Despite this, Everett finds himself nostalgic for home. For everything—the very little—that he had, the endless pile of things to do. He could never run out back home.

Yet here, there is little to occupy his mind that doesn't involve the coming death match, the fact that Tricia and Tanner could be starving right now and he would never know, the inexplicable loneliness and—what is it? Guilt? Remorse? Sadness? Whatever it is, it's no emotion Everett has ever encountered before, and he can't say he's too fond of it.

And that thing, that thing he can't name, it's practically eating him alive. It has something to do with last night, he can tell that—but what it is, he has no clue.

But it may have something to do with the three people condemned to death, only one name that he knows, but there's three of them nonetheless. There's nothing he can do about it, but at the same time…he wishes there was. He wishes he didn't feel quite as powerless as he is. Yet he knows he needs to worry about himself, first—he can worry about the other tributes once he's a Victor and they're…uh, dead. They'd be dead then.

Everett shifts the weight of the scythe from one hand to the other. The shiny blade stares back at him, showing a reflection he'd rather not see. There's nothing about his reflection that scares him, necessarily, but it is not a welcome sight either.

He swipes the scythe at one of the dummies in front of him; a deep gash opens in its manila-colored chest, which instantly begins to spill stuffing.

All the while, his eyes constantly gravitate toward Geo, the name he knows, the face he knows, the _fate_ he knows. The boy in question is trying and failing to make his way through the agility course, unknowing of everything.

Everett's eyes dance on Geo's back for another moment before he turns his attention back to his work. He never gets distracted. That's something he can pride himself on—laser focus, never breaking, always working. Always working.

Yet, some way, somehow, he is allowing someone who should be of no consequence to him distract him. He needs every second he has right now. He can't afford for any distractions.

Time begins to swirl past him, seconds crawling into minutes, and eventually walking into an entire hour. He just keeps attacking the already-messed up dummies mercilessly until his arms ache and his muscles burn.

That's when he first hears someone talking.

"Do you suppose it's worth it? He doesn't exactly seem like the poster-child of trustworthiness."

"I mean…yer the boss so…I guess it's up ta you."

"I just don't want to make such big decisions without the okay from everyone."

"Come on, Calista. Shad and Ottilie ain't going to agree to anythin'."

"I suppose you have a point."

Everett discreetly glances over his shoulder, and, what does he behold but Calista and Bayou standing off to the side talking in low voices? And, of course, their eyes are on him—very clearly discussing _him_.

Not only does that worry Everett immensely, but it confuses him. What business do the Careers have with him? He's not exactly Career material, now is he?

"Where's the harm in asking?"

"Did ya not see the boy from 3 get decked yesterday? Alliances are…dangerous."

"They absolutely are, but we can still ask."

"Well, okay, but if you get a concussion…yer the one ta blame."

"Alright, if I get punched in that by that, then you can say "I told you so." Deal?"

"…deal."

Everett swings the scythe half-heartedly, slicing the arm off of the least-destroyed dummy. It quietly drops to the ground with a soft _thud_. A moment later, snowflakes of dummy filling start to drift toward the ground, piling up beside the cloth arm.

"Hey, 9."

It takes a great deal of will to make Everett look up and meet Calista's eyes. It's not because he's scared of her; quite the opposite, in fact. No, it's more because Everett doesn't want to be associated with the Career Pack, especially not with how they're doing this year. He has no reason to get roped up in that whole mess and has no obligation to do so.

"So, we were wondering if you'd like to join our alliance?" Calista asks, obviously faking whatever tone of voice she's doing. It's another emotion Everett isn't sure he can name. "We'd kind of like to get all of the strongest tributes together, you know? We can really dominate the arena and—"

"If that's what you're going for, why are you keeping the girl from 4?"

Calista, with an unimpressed look on her face, says, "Yes. Well. Do you want in or not?"

"I'm gonna have to go with not," Everett says in reply, hefting the scythe and placing it back on its ledge. "Besides, I've got someone else in mind."

Calista, still looking unimpressed, shrugs and says, "Well, you'd better act fast then. Have fun."

"Oh, I will." Everett watches her go, his gaze effortlessly shifting to Geo, sitting alone on a bench.

For peace of mind.

_Geo Stryker, 15_

_District 12 Male_

Geo just can't shake the feeling that something is about to go horribly wrong. Aside from his possibly-impending death, that is. But he gets the odd feeling that something else is peeking over the horizon, perhaps jeering at him and tempting him to peer over and take a look.

Or, perhaps it has manifested itself in the form of the tribute currently marching toward him.

"Hey, Geo, yes?"

"O-oh…uhm, yeah. What's…up?" He should have said "how it's going". Everett…Everett probably hates him now because he stammered too much and looks too sweaty and has an annoying voice and he doesn't know what kind of person Everett likes and what if he's being too nice? What if he's not being nice enough and Everett already hates him and there's no going back? What if he did something wrong before Everett even decided to speak to him? What if Everett's only here to yell at him about how terrible he is and how quickly he's going to die in the Games? Having someone hating you in the Games is extremely dangerous especially someone like Everett because Geo saw Everett with that scythe and he doesn't want him to kill him and he doesn't want any enemies but it might be too late to fix it and he might have just signed his own death warrant—

"Nothing," Everett say, clasping his hands behind his back. "So. I came to ask you if you would like to ally."

It's amazing how it only takes a few simple words for Geo's entire world to come crashing in.

"Y-you want to…to ally with—me?" Geo stammers, the words quietly stumbling out of his mouth as if in a drunken stupor, seeming to make little sense and only reinforcing the idea in Geo's mind that Everett is only talking to him out of pity. "W-why?"

"I mean, why not?" Everett says, too quickly. "I'd like an ally. You look lonely."

"I m-mean I-I-I'm not—not really too lonely. I don't—don't r-really like people." Geo stares at the ground, trying to decide if eye contact is better or not. Does Everett like eye contact? Does he think it's disrespectful to not meet his eyes? Or does he prefer for his inferiors to not look at him when they're talking? What does Everett want because Geo is definitely doing it wrong and Everett clearly already hates him and he fucked up he fucked up he fucked up—

"Well…if you don't want to ally, you can just say so." Everett starts to walk away, his hands in his pockets.

Geo startles and jumps to his feet. "Oh! Oh, n-no, you don't have to—to go! We can—we can t-totally ally!"

"Um. Okay." Everett turns back around, returning to Geo with an unsure look on his face. "Look, if you're going through some things right now and would rather not have any allies, that's just fine. You don't have to."

For all Geo wants to please people, he really doesn't like them very much. Right now, isolation is probably the way to go but…Everett asked which means that Everett is the one Geo needs to please. And the only way to please him is to agree to his alliance.

"No, no, seriously, we can—we can be allies. I don't—I don't mind," Geo says, trying to force his voice to stay steady. The stress of being here has just fucked over everything, hasn't it?

"Okay," Everett says, sitting down the bench uncertainly. After a moment, Geo sits back down, making sure to stay far enough away from Everett so they aren't touching. "What are you planning to do in your Private Session?"

Geo shrugs. "I h-haven't really thought about it."

"I'm going for scythe-work, mostly," Everett says, wiping sweat off of his forehead. "I'm not sure what else, since obviously I can't spend the entire fifteen-minutes slashing at dummies with a blade."

"Y-yeah." Geo kicks his legs back and forth nervously; he's never liked talking to people he's just met. It's so much easier to figure out how to act when he knows what their personality is like…

He glances up at the dummies Everett destroyed earlier. A pair of Avoxes are carting them away, likely to replace them with new ones, but Geo can't get the image of them out of his head. Everett seems extremely powerful with his scythe—Geo just doesn't want to imagine the stuffing as blood and the cloth as skin. It's far too horrifying of a thought, and Geo is already stressed enough without worrying about what his ally could do to him if he stabbed him in the back.

His ally.

It's still a strange thought, and Geo knows it's going to take some getting used to. He doesn't trust Everett, not one bit, but the best he can do is pretend he does. Maybe Everett will be less likely to cut him to pieces if he thinks they are a team…

Because that's how the Games go, isn't it? Tribute A meets Tribute B. Tributes A and B decide to ally. Tributes launch into arena. Days pass. Tribute A betrays Tribute B and blood is shed.

(In this example, Geo would be Tribute B.)

Throughout all of Geo's life, he never thought he'd end up in the Hunger Games, let alone with an actual ally to call his own. He had always tried to not think about the Games too much—especially not the prospect of him competing in them—let alone what his strategy would be should it arise.

No, what he would do in the Hunger Games was the least of his worry. After all, he'd always been raised on the principle that it wouldn't be him. It wouldn't be him; it would be another nameless boy from the crowds of District 12 who would die in the Bloodbath like a good little outlier. It wouldn't be him; it would be the baker's son. It would be the shoemaker's boy. It would be the emaciated skeleton from the Seam. It would the shopkeeper's brother. It would be his best friend's cousin.

It wouldn't him. Geo had always thought it—no, he'd always _believed_ it. He'd always believed that there would be another boy to die in his place, so he'd never really bothered to put thought to it.

Only now is Geo really realizing the consequences of that decision, when it's far too late to fix it.

And, for all Geo knows, he'll die for it.

_Eris Rowan, 13_

_District 7 Female_

All Eris wants is to keep her feet on the ground. Figuratively and literally.

She wants to keep her head on straight. She wants to keep her eyes facing forward. No, she _needs _to. She _has_ to. She promised Vera and Erato and Erebus that she would do win. That everything would be better once she won. Now all she has to do is get from here to there—she just has to win.

She just has to win.

She can do that, right? That can't be too hard. She's just…thirteen-years-old…fighting against highly trained…eighteen-year-old…_Careers_…

Literally, she hardly feels confident enough to lift a foot off of the ground. It didn't help that Lyndie fell and broke her arm, just like Eris had. Except Lyndie had no one to break her fall—and Eris is afraid that she'll be next.

Everything that has been going on in the past few days has not made her confident. First, Lyndie breaks her arm. Then, Darwin gets punched in the face and given a concussion by another tribute. If these training days are anything to go off of, Eris will be lucky to make it out of the first five minutes, let alone for two weeks against highly trained eighteen-years-old and, possibly, her own allies.

Of course there are seeds of mistrust, even in an alliance of a bunch of little girls. Eris doesn't know if she can trust any of them. She knows how easy it is to lie and manipulate. What would make her allies any different than a tribute that she _isn't_ planning to sleep next to? It's not as if any of her allies have given her a reason not to trust them, but it's still the _Hunger Games_! Only one of them survives!

And, for the record, it's going to be Eris.

She is not going to allow herself to lose. She may be fighting tribute that are…five times her size…but Eris isn't going to allow that stop her. She's never lost before, and she's not ready to give up her winning streak. She has a family to return to, a life she has to live.

But, there is a small voice in her head that calls her selfish.

_But, Eris, don't your allies have families to return to as well? Have you not heard Lyndie talk about her many brothers, or Ashe talk about her parents? Don't they deserve to live just as much as you?_

But Eris can't afford to listen. She has to block out that voice at all costs; she can't let it take root. She can't let herself prize the lives of her allies over her own. Her life should matter most to her. It's her life, damnit! Of course it should mean the most to her! Without it, what is she?

She's dead. And, sure, if she wins, Ashe and Ainsley and Lana and Lyndie will all be dead. But that's a price that, unfortunately, Eris is willing to pay. Is it selfish of her? Maybe. Isn't everyone entitled to be just a little bit selfish in the Hunger Games? Absolutely.

"Hey, Eris, you wanna go over to the climbing course with me? Maybe you can show me a few things about agility?" Ashe ends the proposition with a small laugh, as if they aren't currently in the situation that they find themselves stuck in.

"Oh…oh, I don't think you want me to help you. See, I'm not very good at climbing and I'd like to…"

"Aren't you from District 7?" Ainsley asks, swinging a piece of rope through the air. The knot-tying trainer begins to glare at her, but Ainsley only swings harder.

"Well…yeah, I am but…"

"Shouldn't you know how to climb, then?"

Eris squares her shoulders and glares at Ainsley. _Good news, Platte—you're at the top of my distrust list. Right next to Shad Marcum, Afandina Hariri, and Navarro Lune. _"Theoretically, yeah. But circumstantially…"

"So, you don't know how to climb?" Ashe asks.

"I guess not."

"Do you want to learn? I'm sure there's a trainer that can help—"

"I'd like to keep my feet on the ground, thank you very much," Eris snaps, crossing her arms over her chest and turning her glare on Ashe.

"Oh." Ashe glances down at the tangle of rope in her hands. "Do you want to come anyways? Maybe you can spot me—you know, so we don't have a repeat of Lyndie?" Ashe laughs a little bit, but it quickly trails off, making Eris hyper-aware of their situation once more. Ashe can look on the brightside all she wants, but it won't stop them from knowing what's coming—and what they're going to lose.

"I'll come," Eris concedes after a moment, slowly getting to her feet and leaving her rope where it was. What is even the point of tying knots? Sure, it feels good to have something to do with her hands, but what is the point? When in the arena is she going to do something worth while with her expansive knowledge of knots? What, is she going to kill someone by stuffing complicated knots down their throats?

"You're sure you don't want to come up with me?" Ashe asks as they arrive at the entry platform for the climbing course.

"I'm sure," Eris says. "I don't like heights."

"Ah," Ashe says. She grabs onto the first ladder rung, and then pauses. "You know, Eris, having a fear like that could be detrimental in the Games."

_I don't trust you any further than I can throw you, Illyrian. _"I'm aware."

"Me, personally, being up high feels empowering. I feel like there's nothing that could ever tear me down," Ashe says, stepping down from the ladder. "I feel like I'm on top of the world and nothing can ever hurt me again. I'm assuming you don't feel the same way."

"Absolutely not."

Ashe purses her lips. "I see being up high as being closer to the sky. To the stars. To the clouds. To the sun and the moon. I guess it kind of feels like I'm closer to the future…like there is nothing that can ever top me."

"How did you ever get there?" Eris asks. "I mean, how do you view as that? All I see is the possibility of falling again."

"I see—wait, did you say again?"

"No—no!" Eris stammers, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her vest. "That's not what I said. I just said the possibility of falling."

"Uh-huh," Ashe says skeptically. "Anyways…so, the prospect of falling is what scares you about heights?"

"Yeah."

"Well…what would happen if you were, say, in a completely sealed box, suspended in the air?"

"I could still fall."

"For the sake of this, you can't fall," Ashe says, leaning against the wall by the platform. "You are completely safe, but you're hanging in the air."

"I would…still fall."

"You're just paranoid," Ashe says. "I think it stems from whatever fall you experienced before—"

"I didn't fall before!" Eris exclaims defensively. She doesn't need Ashe knowing about that. She doesn't need Ashe knowing that she needs someone to break her fall.

"Right, right, whatever. It stems from you being afraid of a repeat of whatever happened before. I'm not a trained doctor—and I'm only fourteen—but…are you sure you don't have any kind of PTSD?"

Eris glares harshly at Ashe. "No, I don't!"

"Are you sure?" Ashe asks again.

"You know what? Thanks for your help and everything but I'm gonna go back to tying my very important knots now." Eris pivots on her feet and stalks back to the knot trying station, leaving Ashe standing alone at the entry for the climbing course. _Serves her right_, she thinks moodily. Does she have some kind of PTSD? Maybe. Is she far too prideful to admit to it? Yeah.

Eris can say it's just a silly childhood fear all the live long day, but eventually, she knows it's going to come back to bite her. The only question is when.

_Wonder Hammerfort, 12_

_District 2 Male_

_**(TW for implied past sexual/physical abuse)**_

Wonder has to admit it; he's kind of lonely.

Watching all of these alliances form, watching them being around each other, watching them talk and plan, day after day, has made him surprisingly nostalgic for home.

Well, not "home", per say. District 2 has never really felt like "home". More like "his place of birth and residence". The only place he ever knew Wake—the only place he ever found it in himself to be happy.

Wonder isn't really sure what being happy feels like anymore. After all, he'd been waiting for execution for several weeks when he was back in District 2, wasting away in the basement of the Justice Building. Sometimes, the executions that they held out front would go just right, and a trickle of blood would find its way into his cell. It would dance along the rivets in the tiles out front the Justice Building, on the same stage that the Reapings took place on, and eventually arrive at the tiny window near the ceiling of his cell. It would slowly make its merry way to the floor, where it would dry and remain a constant reminder of what was to come. Of course, the blood outside was always hosed off—District 2 may be the Military District, but even they aren't barbarians.

The object of Wonder's eye today has turned out to be the alliance of girls. He never bothered to learn all of their names, but he knows they wouldn't want him.

He gets to his feet and starts to wander; he already visited the few stations that interested him in the past two days, and now he has nothing left to do.

As he passes the knife-throwing station he notices the boy from 8. The boy has deadly accuracy—throwing nothing but knife after knife after knife at the moving targets, hitting time and time again.

The girls won't want him. But maybe 8 will?

Wonder takes a deep breath and taps the boy on his shoulder.

"What the fuck?" the boy yells, whirling around. Amazingly, one of the knives finds its way to Wonder's throat. The blade presses against his skin, making Wonder lean away from it and put his hands up in surrender. "Who the fuck are you? What the fuck do you want?"

"I'm. Um. Wonder, from 2. I was wondering if you'd like to ally with me?" Wonder says, lifting a hand to push the knife away from his throat.

"Fuck off."

"Oh," Wonder says, dejected yet unsurprised. "Okay."

He turns to leave, but suddenly feels the blade of a knife pressing against the top of his shoulder. He pivots quickly, looking at 8 with wild eyes. "What—what are you doing?"

8 lifts up the knife. "Please. It didn't even break the skin."

"Yeah, but—"

"I think I'd actually like to take you up on that offer," 8 says. And then his eyes turn dark, and he grabs Wonder's shirt and pulls him up to his face. "But here's the deal, Woodrow—I call the shots here, since I'm clearly the one with the capability to make decisions. You obey my orders without complaint and if you don't, I'll punish you how I sit fit. Got it, pretty boy?"

Fuck. He sounds like Yoldan.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He fucked up. He fucked up. He fucked up. He has to get out, has to get out, has to gET OUT—

Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Wonder turns tail and runs. He can't go back. He can't go back. He can't go back. He can't go back, not to District 2, not to Yoldan, not to Wake's lifeless gravestone and the blood that trickled down the wall in his cell and the threat of execution and the hell that he lived he can't go back he can't go back he can't go back—

Suddenly Wonder snaps back to reality with a slam, finding himself tucked in the shadows between the wall and the platforms for the climbing course. His breathing is fast and ragged, his entire back heaving with the effort to continue taking in air. His hands are tangled in his hair, and his eyes won't stop darting around, from place to place to place, never lingering for longer than a second.

Right outside of his hidey-hole, a pair of feet appear, making him jump violently.

An entire body quickly joins the pair of shoes. He watches their feet start to get smaller until he can read the number pinned to their back—11. After a moment, 11 notices Wonder over his shoulder and raises his eyebrows at him. They stare at each other for a moment before 11 keeps walking, shaking his head as he disappears around the corner.

_Yoldan is dead_, Wonder reminds himself. He's dead and he's the reason that you're here. Be grateful. The only reason you got to live the last few months of your life in relative peace is because of Rupert, who quickly became one particular trickle of blood—the only one that Wonder could ever identify.

Wonder is once again rudely snapped out of his thoughts by the sight of 8 racing around the Training Floor, clearly searching for him.

It makes his breathing quicken again, to the point where he's nearly hyperventilating. 11 noticed him, so what's to stop 8 from doing the same? Wonder tries to quickly scoot further back into the shadows, but 8 notices him all the same.

8 appears quickly, blocking Wonder's only exit and once again grabbing onto Wonder's shirt. He forces them to be face-to-face once again, their noses almost touching. "What the fuck, you little bitch? You really thought you could run away from me? I got knives, bitch, and I ain't afraid to use them." As if to accentuate his point, he twirls the knife in his free hand in a circle.

Wonder does nothing but stare at him and hyperventilate. He had always learned as a child to just take it—whatever they did to you would be no worse than what they did if you resisted.

"What, you're not even going to say anything? God, you're more pathetic than _Travis_."

Wonder gets the feeling that that should be some kind of terrible insult, but seeing as his doesn't know who Travis is, all he does is stare some more.

"God, say something, you little bitch!" 8 cries, throwing Wonder against the side of the climbing course platform. He presses the blade of the knife against Wonder's forehead, making a small cut above his eyebrows.

A tiny trickle of blood drips into Wonder's eye, a tiny dot of red against the gray backdrop of the Training Floor. His fight-or-flight instincts start going wild, but he can't move; there's a knife to his forehead, which if pressed hard enough could literally kill him.

8 digs the blade in further, and suddenly several Peacekeepers are there, pulling 8 off and restraining him against the wall. He trashes and screeches while Wonder starts there, dumbfounded, until one of the Peacekeepers inserts a needle into 8's neck and his body goes limp.

One of the Peacekeepers approaches Wonder, probably to take him the Medic's Station. Wonder's eyes widen again and he takes off running, stumbling across the Training Floor in search of a new place to hide. He doesn't know where to go; all he knows is that he can't stay here.

He can't go back. He can't go back to the ghosts of Yoldan and Wake and Rupert. He can't return to the hell that was supposed to be his home, yet somehow, he has to.

_Ainsley Platte, 14_

_District 9 Female_

"Hey, Ainsley? Can we talk for a minute?"

"Sure," Ainsley says without looking up from her knot of ropes.

Lana drops onto the floor in front of Ainsley, her hands nervously twisting a piece of twine. "So, do you know anything about Capitolite movie directors?"

"What kind of question is that?" Ainsley says, still uninterested as she unties her newest knot, noting that her rope is starting to fray.

"Well, see, back home, we were writing these essays in school…"

"_That's_ what you're focusing on right now?" Ainsley says, lifting an eyebrow, her gaze still trained on her hands. "We're all going to be fighting for our lives in a few days, and you're choosing to obsess over an essay about movie directors? Even if you get back, why in Panem would they still make you write some stupid essay?"

Honestly, that's one of the biggest draws for Ainsley. If she wins, she'll never have to spend another minute in that Panem-forsaken school. She'll never have to take another quiz on how to identify types of grain, or go on field trips to a random wheat field. She'll never have to work another day in her life. She'll never have to so much as look at another scythe.

It sounds so wonderful. She'll be there soon, she promises herself. But before she can get there, she has to do the hard part—she has to kill someone, she has to spend possibly weeks trapped in an arena.

But she'll be there soon. After all, she can't take the alternative.

"Planning that essay is taking my mind off of things. Speaking of which, do you know what the formula to calculate how long it would take for a ball thrown in the air to reach the ground again? We were just talking about it in my math class and I'm totally spacing on the formula." Lana idly swirls a finger around on her arm, making some unknown, invisible design.

"No," Ainsley snaps. "They stopped teaching math and english in school years ago."

Lana sighs, still drawing designs in her skin with her fingernails. "I miss home."

"Great," Ainsley says. She's well aware of the fact that in order for Lana to make it home, she would be dead. But, she decides to humor her. "I do too."

"What's District 9 like?" Lana asks. "I've heard it's beautiful right before harvest."

Ainsley shrugs. "It's grain. Just endless fields of wheat and barley and soy."

"You know, I've always thought I'd be better off in an agricultural District," Lana comments. "Endless fields of grain sound pretty good to me."

"Each to their own," Ainsley says with another shrug. "So, what are you going to do in your Private Session?"

Ainsley herself already has her plan down to a T; she spent a little bit more than hour yesterday memorizing the answers to the plant identification test, so as long as she doesn't completely fuck it up, she'll score a one-hundred on that. She already practiced on the agility course yesterday as well, making sure that her movements are fluid and graceful. She would throw a weapon in as well, but her goal is to have a formidable score without making herself a target.

It may sound terrible, but Ainsley would much rather watch Shad or Scoria slaughter Lana and Lyndie than herself. As long as she doesn't have to do it herself, it's just one less person Ainsley has to cut down in order to get home.

"I'm going to do some injury treating and shelter-building," Lana answers. "You?"

Ainsley pauses for a moment. "I'm not sure. But I'm sure I'll think of something."

"I'm sure you will," Lana agrees. "So you really don't know anything about Capitolite movie directors?"

"I already said no," says Ainsley, starting to get slightly annoyed. "And I don't know any formulas either."

"Thanks anyways," Lana says.

_God, how you can be so _nice_? _Ainsley asks herself. It just doesn't make sense. They're all going to be facing off in a death match in less than forty-eight hours, and Lana's still here thanking Ainsley and telling her everything. _Angels don't last long in the arena, honey. _

"I don't mean to get all existential on you or anything, but…how do you think we're going to fair in the Games?" Lana asks, her voice nervous and quiet. "I've been doing my best to keep it out of my mind but…"

"I don't know," Ainsley says. She would love to say "Well, I'm going to win and you're going to die", but even Ainsley isn't that horrible. Besides, she can tell herself that all the live long day, but she only has so many chances. Ainsley herself can only do so much, and she hates it.

"I think we're gonna be okay," says Lana. "I think we're gonna be okay."

"Whatever you say," Ainsley says, getting to her feet. "Look, can we just continue this conversation some other time? I've got better things to do than stand here listening to you and your optimism."

"Oh," Lana murmurs. "Um, sorry for…bothering you, I guess."

Ainsley stalks off, still twisting her rope around in her hands. She stops several feet away from the station, staring off into space as her hands work the fraying twine into a new type of knot.

Sometimes she wonders if putting her trust into her allies is a good idea. Well, not exactly "trust". She doesn't "trust" her allies. At least, she trusts them enough to not slit her throat while she sleeps at night, but she certainly wouldn't put her life in their hands.

Okay, so maybe that's a bad example. By falling asleep by them, she is putting her life in their hands. But say she was tied to a bomb and you had to cut one of two wires to disarm it. Ainsley certainly wouldn't expect one of her allies to cut the wire that would save her life.

_Lana would_, Ainsley thinks, crossing her arms and letting the rope dangle from her grip._ Lyndie would. Eris probably would too. But what about Ashe?_

Out of all of her allies, Ainsley probably trusts Ashe the most. Lyndie and Lana are too nice—maybe they would stupidly give up their lives for Ainsley's, but it doesn't mean anything to her. They don't trust her; they rely on her. She's their ally, which they would sacrifice themselves for out of obligation and naivety alone. Eris is untrustworthy, no doubt about it. Ainsley wouldn't trust Eris to look after a pet rock. But Ashe is strange. It's not that Ainsley thinks that Ashe won't kill her if the need arises; she thinks she absolute will, as would anyone else in their situation.

But Ainsley would trust Ashe to watch her back if they were walking in the dark. She would trust that Ashe won't run off if she sees the Careers before Ainsley does.

Lyndie and Lana are naïve. Eris is a loose cannon. But Ashe is different. And Ainsley is afraid that she'll die for it.

_Quinn Bayers, 17_

_District 11 Male_

"Tributes, please make your way to the waiting room to your left. Please sit in District order. Thank you."

Quinn finds it almost funny that they say "please" and "thank you" in their messages. It isn't exactly surprising, as they do seem to view competing in the Hunger Games as honor. To Quinn, it's nothing but necessary. To the tributes around him, he suspects it's more like punishment.

He's one of the first to enter the waiting room; the walls are bleak, a dull shade of gray, and the only furnishings are several benches, a color to match the rest of the room.

_God, they even chose where we're supposed to sit_, Quinn thinks as he makes his way through the rows. The last set of benches, emblazoned with _11M_, _11F_, _12M_ and _12F_, sit neatly tucked away in the back corner, out of sight and out of mind. At least, that's how they are to the Gamemakers. Quinn knows how it works; the longer the Gamemakers sit there, the less they pay attention the tributes. But it's not his fault he comes from 11, and it's not his fault that the Gamemakers have the attention span of a dead squirrel on drugs.

Quinn settles down for the long haul in his square. The girl from 9 takes a seat across the aisle, twisting a rope in her hands and murmuring something under her breath. The pair from 4 come in arguing. The girl from 12 seems to be making a conscious effort to not look at the girl from 6.

It only takes a few minutes for all twenty-four of them to come trickling in and find their seats. Once everyone is seated, they call Shad in, and Quinn crosses his legs, preparing for a rather long stay on this particular bench. Before they left for training this morning, Ashe had declared that they're going to sit there for five and a half hours before they get called in.

"The math is simple, really," Ashe had said. "Twenty-four times fifteen comes out to three-hundred-and-sixty, which is divisible by sixty so it comes out to six hours in total. Take away the amount of times the Twelves have, and there we are. We're gonna be there a while."

Now, Ashe is sitting beside him, wringing her hands nervously. Quinn looks at her for a moment before he says, "Hey, don't worry about it. The training scores are arbitrary anyway."

He knows it's not entirely true; training scores can draw in sponsors. But, at the same time, Ashe has to know that she's probably not going to get many sponsors, what with her height, stature, age and allies. Ashe is a smart girl—after all, he saw no calculator this morning. She has to be rational enough to realize that she has little chance, right?

It's not even that Quinn is so over-confident that he knows he's going to win already. He knows that confidence can kill in the Games. But surely Ashe is intelligent enough to be rational, right?

"Without a good training score, I won't have any chance of getting sponsors, Quinn," Ashe replies, shaking her head, still wringing her hands. "I mean, my allies and I can only do so much."

"But," Quinn starts, still trying to be comforting. "sponsors don't matter anyway. Right? In end, isn't everyone going to die?" _Missed the mark there, Bayers. _

"I…suppose so," Ashe says, looking up confusedly. "if you want to get existential."

"I mean, it's true, isn't it? In end, everyone bleeds the same," Quinn says with a shrug.

"You're not wrong," Ashe says with a small, strangled laugh. "Although, sometimes I wonder if the Careers even _have_ blood to shed."

"Calista Abbey," says the pleasant voice in the ceiling.

"I'm sure they do," answers Quinn. "What, do you expect them to bleed ichor?"

"Well…no," Ashe says. "They just seem so unstoppable."

"If they were unstoppable, no outlier would ever win. Besides, the Careers have been going through a bad streak in the past few years," Quinn says. "But they're better than they have been this year."

"Isn't that the scary part?" Ashe asks. "I mean, what can I, a tiny fourteen-year-old brainiac do to stop them? I'm not strong, I'm don't know how to fight; I would never be able to hold my own again a Career."

"I guess it comes down to who is smarter," Quinn says, still trying to be comforting, and somehow still failing. "You can fight and fight and fight, but when it really comes down to the wire, it's all about whoever can outsmart their opponent first, especially in your case."

"Easy for you to say," Ashe says, her voice getting lower and more annoyed. "You're tall, you're muscular, you're handsome, you're older. I mean, come on! You have the _look_ of a Victor. I'm just Ashe, probably to be Bloodbath Ashe."

"Don't say that," Quinn says quickly. "I—"

"Wonder Hammerfort," says the voice in the ceiling, effectively interrupting their conversation once more.

"You what?" Ashe demands, crossing her arms. She shakes her head. "I don't want to die at fourteen-years-old, Quinn. What kind of life is that? What kind of life ends at fourteen and still somehow manages to be worthwhile?"

Quinn pauses for a moment, unsure. "I guess I wouldn't know."

"No, you wouldn't," Ashe says. "I _want_ to live Quinn. I don't want to die in the Hunger Games."

"No one does," Quinn snaps. "Nobody wants to die."

"I say that's not necessarily true," Ashe counters, leaning forward. "Haven't you ever seen the people who volunteer in order to throw themselves to the mines? If that's not wanting to die, then I don't know what is."

Quinn lets his shoulders sag. He heaves a sigh and shakes his head. "Whatever."

Ashe turns away from him, her hands in the pockets of her vest. Quinn stares at her for a moment before he, too, turns away and trains his eyes on the floor.

**A/N: Quinn's POV is just a little bit shorter than everyone else's, but I felt like that was a good place to end it, so I did. **

**1\. What are your thoughts on Everett and Geo's alliance?**

**2\. Who do you think will fair best in the Private Sessions?**

**3\. Predicted training scores?**

**4\. Has your predicted Victor changed throughout the pre-games so far?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: who is your favorite Hunger Games character?**

**My answer: I've always liked Haymitch. I guess I'll go with him.**

**ALLIANCES:**

_**We're Still Extremely Volatile This Year: **_**Shad (D1M), Calista (D1F), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M), Ottilie (D4F)**

_**Flower Power: **_**Lana (D3F), Eris (D7F), Lyndie (D8F), Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)**

_**Sad Lesbians: **_**Jayce (D6F), Ishtar (D12F)**

_**Disaster Lesbians: **_**Liesel (D5F), Tam (D10F)**

_**5'6 Gang: **_**Darwin (D3M), Sterne (D5M), Mercury (D7M)**

_**For Peace of Mind: **_**Everett (D9M), Geo (D12M)**

**Two things: one, there is a new poll, so make sure to vote on that. Two, this is a double update with the private sessions report. **

**-Amanda**


	26. Private Sessions Report

**Sender: **Silas A. Euphemia _(Head Gamemaker)_

**Receiver: **Graciela F. Purdue _(President of Panem)_

**Subject: **Training Scores / Private Sessions

…

**Tribute Name: **Shad Marcum

**Age: **18

**District: **1

**Score: **10

**Synopsis of Session: **Shad showed proficiency with a spear, at both long and short range. In the last few minutes of his session, he picked up a sword and proved to be skilled with it as well.

**Noted Alliances: **Shad is a member of the Career alliance.

**Odds: **5:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Calista Abbey

**Age: **18

**District: **1

**Score: **9

**Synopsis of Session: **Calista asked for a sparring partner and quickly bested them in a swordfight.

**Noted Alliances: **Calista is a member of the Career alliance. She is noted as the elected leader of the alliance.

**Odds: **8:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Wonder Hammerfort

**Age: **12

**District: **2

**Score: **5

**Synopsis of Session: **Wonder threw several knives at a target, achieving no complete misses and one bullseye.

**Noted Alliances: **Wonder appears to be going solo.

**Odds: **59:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Scoria Primer

**Age: **18

**District: **2

**Score: **10

**Synopsis of Session: **Scoria beheaded several dummies and fired ten perfect arrow shots at a moving target.

**Noted Alliances: **Scoria is a member of the Career alliance.

**Odds: **3:1

**Others Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Darwin Abner

**Age: **15

**District: **3

**Score: **6

**Synopsis of Session: **Darwin appeared confident with a knife in his hands as well as being physically fit and fast.

**Noted Alliances: **Darwin has an alliance with Mercury from 7 and Sterne from 5. It appears that there really isn't a leader to this alliance; however, Darwin seems to be steering.

**Odds: **26:1

**Other Notes: **Darwin was punched by a fellow tribute (Afandina from 10) yesterday, which left him with a concussion. He appears to be fine now.

…

**Tribute Name: **Lana Meadows

**Age: **14

**District: **3

**Score: **4

**Synopsis of Session: **Lana appeared proficient in treating injuries and building shelters.

**Noted Alliances: **Lana is a part of an alliance between Ashe from 11, Eris from 7, Lyndie from 8 and Ainsley from 9. It appears as there is no leader.

**Odds: **41:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Bayou Hacksom

**Age: **18

**District: **4

**Score: **9

**Synopsis of Session: **Bayou showed that he is skilled in both fighting and survival skills; he sparred with a trainer and bested them in a fight, as well as showing a knowledge for rather obscure plants—many he identified I had never heard of.

**Noted Alliances: **Bayou is a member of the Career alliance.

**Odds: **10:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Ottilie Blackwell

**Age: **15

**District: **4

**Score: **9

**Synopsis of Session: **Ottilie started with throwing knives, using eight blades and striking the dummy's head thrice and the chest twice. Once finished with that, she showed satisfactory agility abilities.

**Noted Alliances: **Ottilie is a member of the Career alliance.

**Odds: **15:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Sterne Colvin

**Age: **14

**District: **5

**Score: **6

**Synopsis of Session: **Sterne proved confident with a dagger, able to win two-out-of-three fights with a sparring partner. He also scored an eighty-three on the plant identification test.

**Noted Alliances: **Sterne is in an alliance consisting of himself, Mercury from 7 and Darwin from 3.

**Odds: **32:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Liesel Leenheer

**Age: **17

**District: **5

**Score: **4

**Synopsis of Session: **Liesel showed less-than-mediocre skills with a knife. The shelter that she built collapsed shortly after she left.

**Noted Alliances: **Liesel appears to have embarked on a…romantic relationship with Tamarah from 10.

**Odds: **47:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Larch Tyre

**Age: **18

**District: **6

**Score: **7

**Synopsis of Session: **Larch proved to be skilled with a sword, as he bested two sparring partners. He also showed off his endurance by spending the rest of his session (five or six minutes) running laps around the Training Floor.

**Noted Alliances: **Larch has no alliances.

**Odds: **17:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Jayce Dotter

**Age: **18

**District: **6

**Score: **6

**Synopsis of Session: **Jayce built several traps and shot seven arrows, striking two bullseyes and one miss. She also completed a plant identification test, scoring an eighty-five.

**Noted Alliances: **Jayce has a strange relationship with Ishtar from 12. They appear to be in an alliance, but, who knows, honestly?

**Odds: **19:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Mercury Harrigan

**Age: **16

**District: **7

**Score: **4

**Synopsis of Session: **Mercury appeared nervous when holding a weapon and lost to his sparring partner, but proved able to climb and move with ease.

**Noted Alliances: **Mercury is in an alliance with Sterne from 5 and Darwin from 3.

**Odds: **56:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Eris Rowan

**Age: **13

**District: **7

**Score: **6

**Synopsis of Session: **Eris swung an ax for several minutes at dummies, absolutely destroying them.

**Noted Alliances: **Eris is a part of an alliance between Ashe from 11, Lana from 3, Lyndie from 8 and Ainsley from 9.

**Odds: **56:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Navarro Lune

**Age: **12

**District: **8

**Score: **8

**Synopsis of Session: **He asked for a sparring partner, which we were reluctant to give him after his past transgressions. He quickly stabbed them in the stomach.

**Noted Alliances: **Navarro has no allies.

**Odds: **23:1

**Other Notes: **Both of the trainers he has stabbed are still in hospital, but are recovering nicely.

…

**Tribute Name: **Lyndie Franklin

**Age: **12

**District: **8

**Score: **3

**Synopsis of Session: **Lyndie tried to use a knife, but seeing as one of her arms is stuck in a cast, she had little success.

**Noted Alliances: **Lyndie's allies are Ashe from 11, Lana from 3, Ainsley from 9 and Eris from 7.

**Odds: **76:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Everett Reed

**Age: **17

**District: **9

**Score:** 7

**Synopsis of Session: **Everett lifted several weights and attacked moving dummies with a scythe.

**Noted Alliances: **Everett formed an alliance with Geo from 12 earlier this morning.

**Odds: **19:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Ainsley Platte

**Age: **14

**District: **9

**Score: **5

**Synopsis of Session: **Ainsley spent ten minutes of her session climbing through the agility course. In the last few minutes, she scored a one-hundred on the plant identification test.

**Noted Alliances: **Ainsley is in an alliance with Ashe from 11, Lana from 3, Eris from 7 and Lyndie from 8.

**Odds: **33:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Afandina Hariri

**Age: **17

**District: **10

**Score: **6

**Synopsis of Session: **Afandina threw several hatchets at moving dummies and sparred with a spear. He also took a plant identification test, scoring an eighty-six.

**Noted Alliances: **Afandina seems to be going solo.

**Odds: **29:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Tamarah Colt

**Age: **16

**District: **10

**Score: **5

**Synopsis of Session: **Tamarah lifted several weights and showed a satisfactory ability to camouflage herself.

**Noted Alliances: **Tamarah seems to have fallen in love with Liesel from 5.

**Odds: **32:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Quinn Bayers

**Age: **17

**District: **11

**Score: **7

**Synopsis of Session: **Quinn built a shelter which remained standing until two Avoxes took it apart. He also slashed several dummies with a sword, showing proficiency with the weapon in his hands.

**Noted Alliances: **Quinn has no alliances.

**Odds: **15:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Ashe Illyrian

**Age: **14

**District: **11

**Score: **5

**Synopsis of Session: **Ashe attacked some dummies with a small knife. She also completed a plant identification test, which she scored a ninety-two on.

**Noted Alliances: **Ashe has formed an alliance with Ainsley from 9, Eris from 7, Lyndie from 8 and Lana from 3.

**Odds: **35:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Geo Stryker

**Age: **15

**District: **12

**Score: **4

**Synopsis of Session: **Geo threw six knives at moving dummies. He nailed one in the chest, another in the side of the head, missed one entirely, and the rest hit a limb of the dummies.

**Noted Alliances: **Geo recently formed an alliance with Everett from 9.

**Odds: **41:1

**Other Notes: **None.

…

**Tribute Name: **Ishtar Marmaduke

**Age: **18

**District: **12

**Score: **8

**Synopsis of Session: **Ishtar fired a crossbow at several targets, hitting three bullseyes. She also attacked a dummy with a machete, eventually slashing the dummy across the chest. She also made several animal traps.

**Noted Alliances: **Ishtar has a very strange relationship with Jayce from 6. They are currently in an alliance.

**Odds: **20:1

**Other Notes: **None.

**A/N: Are the odds balanced? Probably not. Did I try to make them balanced? Kind of.**

**1\. Do you think the scores made sense?**

**2\. Which private session was the most interesting?**

**3\. Did any of the sessions seem surprising to you?**

**4\. Does anyone's odds surprise you?**

**Don't forget to vote on the poll if you haven't. **

**-Amanda**


	27. She Will Love Her All the Same

_Jayce Dotter, 18_

_District 6 Female_

So, a 6.

It's not bad, certainly. It's acceptable, according to Kasumi. But Larch scored higher than her, and Jayce has to admit that she never has liked being second best.

And with Ishtar getting an 8, no less. It certainly doesn't help ease the pain of being second best.

Nothing helps ease the pain, in fact. With little more than twenty-four hours to go before they launch into the arena, Jayce doubts she'll find a source of comfort anywhere. But she knows she has to soldier on. She just has to get home, and then everything will work itself out…

…at least, that's what she keeps telling herself. Maybe if she thinks it enough times, it will come true.

But that's not how it works. That's not how anything works. The only thing that can save her is herself. Not Ishtar, not the Gamemakers, not Kasumi, and certainly not magic.

"Hey, Jayce? Ishtar's here and she wants to talk to you," Kasumi says suddenly from the door frame, leaning out into the fresh, summer air.

Jayce stands up, facing away from the glorious Capitol. "Oh."

"Work with her, remember? Give 'em what you got," Kasumi reminds her as she comes inside. "It'll help, I promise."

Jayce nods and approaches Ishtar with her head high and her shoulders back. Ishtar may not be able to save her, but she sure can help.

"Jayce!" Ishtar says happily, rushing forward to give Jayce a hug. Jayce reluctantly wraps her arms around Ishtar's back, slightly uncomfortable.

After a moment, Ishtar pulls back and glances at Kasumi, Dixie and Larch. "We need to talk. Like, privately."

"Alright," Jayce says stiffly. Everything just feels _wrong_ with Ishtar. Jayce has to wonder if it was wrong when they were still together—was something about their relationship off? Or is it a new development, courtesy of District 6 and Drew Huck?

Ah, Drew. Jayce misses her. She wonders if she misses Drew like Ishtar missed her.

Somehow she doubts it. Ishtar loves in a different way than Drew and Jayce do.

"So, what do you need to talk about?" Jayce says as she follows Ishtar into her own bedroom.

"I—" Ishtar starts, only to be cut off by the loud slamming of the door.

"What the—?" Jayce says, going to door and trying to turn the knob. "It's jammed!"

"I'm sure it's not!" Ishtar says, reaching for the doorknob as well. "Oh."

That's when Jayce hears someone laughing on the other side of the door. "Goddamnit, Kasumi, open the door!"

"I'll open the door when you too stop dancing around your feelings," Kasumi says, her voice slightly muffled.

"Kasumi—!"

"Look, Jayce, I'm not asking you too to come out kissing each other. But somehow, you too have to make things work. No one is going to believe you're madly in love with each other if you can't even hold a normal human conversation with each other. So hash it out, do whatever you need to to make up."

"Let us out, Kasumi," Jayce says firmly.

"No," Kasumi says. "It's going to fix things. I promise."

"Promises don't mean anything," Ishtar says bitterly.

"What?" Kasumi says from the other side of the door, but Jayce talks over her.

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, it's true. Promises are made to be broken, as it seems," Ishtar says, looking at Jayce as if she's supposed to get some kind of hint.

"I don't know what you want from me anymore," Jayce says, shaking her head. "Things can change, you know. People grow up. Things happen…people happen."

For a moment, she stares off into space, imagining the kind of life she should have had with Drew and how it has all been torn away from her.

But Ishtar's pale and horrified face drags her out of her daydream. "You fell in love."

"What?"

"You fell in love with someone else. That's why…you're being…oh god." Ishtar stumbles over to the bed and sinks onto the mattress, her head in her hands. "We had a promise, Jayce…don't you remember?"

"I remember," Jayce says stiffly. "But, as you said, promises are made to be broken."

Ishtar powers to her feet, whirling around and pointing an angry finger at Jayce. "No, okay? No. You're not supposed to fall in love with someone else…I just thought you had fallen out of love with me…I never thought there would be someone else in the picture…"

"Yeah…" Jayce says, for once in her life at a loss for words. "Life happens."

"God, where did I go wrong?" Ishtar says, once again sinking onto the bed. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"Let's not hold a pity party, Ishtar," says Jayce, face like stone. She reaches over and puts her hands on Ishtar's shoulders. "Life doesn't stop for anyone. I'm sorry…it's just over for us."

"I volunteered for a death game for you," Ishtar says coldly, staring at the sheets.

"I know," Jayce says sadly. And she does. She knows what lengths Ishtar went to to reunite with her, no matter how misguided. And once upon a time, Jayce had been naïve like that, too. She had agreed to do the deal, promised that she and Ishtar would be together again…and here she is, breaking that promise.

As per usual.

"Sometime love just doesn't last," Jayce says, taking a few steps toward the door. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want your apology," Ishtar says in a low, quivering voice. She looks over her should at Jayce and continues, "I wish that stupid train plan had been burnt."

That feels like the straw that breaks the camel's back. "You wanted to ruin my chance for a better life just so I'd stay back in 12 with you? God, Ishtar, when are you going to realize that the world doesn't revolve around you? Oddly enough, the rest of us have problems, too! Maybe it's time you put yourself in someone else's shoes and realize you're not the only one in the world with problems."

Jayce isn't quite sure where the tirade came from, but it feels good to just let it out. She doesn't care that Ishtar could be dead in two days. Right now, she is so, so beyond caring. "Kasumi, let me out!"

"Doesn't sound like you've made up yet!"

"Goddamnit, Kasumi, just let me out! I can't stand to be in here for another minute."

The lock clicks and the door swings open to reveal a dejected Kasumi. "This usually works."

Ishtar shoulders past Jayce, glaring at her with wet, angry eyes. She makes it to the elevator before she pauses and says, "Jayce, no matter what you do and what you say about me, I will love you all the same."

Jayce stands there, staring at the ground, her fists clenched as Ishtar boards the elevator and soars skyward.

"If that trick is supposed to work so well, why didn't you try it with Mercy and Warren?" Dixie asks from the couch.

"Mercy punched through the window. I was _not_ going to end up with a whole in the wall and a corpse to hide."

"What?"

Jayce springs forward and grabs the doorknob of the stairs. She takes the steps two at a time, ascending the floors in less than two minutes. She arrives at the penthouse out of breath and bursts through the door, finding Ishtar sitting alone on the couch in the dark.

"What do you want?" Ishtar says without looking at her.

"I just wanted to say…" Jayce says quietly, straightening her posture. "Maybe, just maybe, I will love you all the same as well."

_Shad Marcum, 18_

_District 1 Male_

"Ahh, it feels good to be on top." Shad stretches out further on the couch, his eyes lazily drifting over the barren ceiling.

"I wouldn't exactly say that you're on top," Calista says from her prissy perch on the ottoman. It's a ridiculous place to sit, but Calista somehow makes it seem posh with her perfect posture and tight-lipped smile.

"Highest score out of the entire bunch, Cal," Shad says, taking the effort to make his voice still nonchalant.

"Do not call me "Cal", Marcum—"

"Ah-ah, Calista, remember that we have to _play nice_, hm?"

Calista glares her signature daggers at Shad before continuing. "Scoria got the same score at you. You're not special."

Shad flares his nostrils. "Excuse me, bitch. I am the clear-cut Victor of these Games and I will not have anyone saying otherwise—"

"Haven't you ever noticed that the clear-cut Victor _never_ wins?" Calista muses, draping herself across the ottoman and looking at the ceiling. "It's always some outlier with a broken arm and a score of 3, or the fifteen-year-old volunteer from District 4, or the crazy abused boy from 2…or, the "clear-cut's" district partner."

"In your dreams," Shad growls, getting to his feet and walking around the back of the couch.

"Anything can happen in the Hunger Games, Marcum. Which is why the Careers really do need to play nice."

"In case you haven't noticed, and I doubt you have, I am not the one causing problems. The issues stem from your precious lackey and his district partner."

"I'm not going to dispute that Ottilie is a problem, but what's wrong with Bayou?" Calista asks. Shad is unable to detect whether she's being sincere or not, but he guesses she's probably just being an asshole. That seems to be all Calista is.

"Oh, come _on_! He's deadweight, he's useless, he'll probably get knocked out in the first five minutes—"

"So could you," Calista says curtly, and with that, she sweeps off to her room, still just as prissy and perfect and posh as before.

God, she makes Shad sick. She clearly thinks she's better than Shad is, and it's all because of that stupid vote. He'll show her…he'll show her who's on top and who's the one to fall in the first five minutes…he'll show her with a spear in her back.

"Can I give you some advice?"

"Fuck. Off."

Neapolitan blocks his way. "Seriously, Shad, my job is to give you advice to keep you alive."

"I don't need your pathetic advice, thank you very much."

After all, Shad will be winning this. Maybe it won't be as perfect as he needs it to be but he's sure he'll survive somehow. He can surely survive his win being short of perfection. Surely. He doesn't need perfection to survive. Yeah. Yeah. He's just fine without and his win will be as well. Yeah.

"See, that's the problem," Neapolitan says, handing Shad a mug of steaming tea.

Shad glares at him, sets the mug over the couch, and turns it upside down.

"Thank you for proving my point," Neapolitan says, blowing on his own mug. "See, Shad, what you need to understand is that it's okay to get help."

"No it's not," Shad says immediately, crossing his arms. "I don't need help to win."

"That's what all of my older tributes said!" Neapolitan exclaims. "And guess where they ended up? A graveyard."

"I'm different," Shad asserts. "I'm _better_."

"Just because you say it doesn't make it true," Neapolitan says off-handedly, shrugging. He looks the other direction for a moment before he continues. "Shad, I guess my biggest question is why you think getting help is so horrible."

"Being a Career is solo job."

"It really isn't," Neapolitan says, wiping tea from his top lip with his forearm. Shad wrinkles his nose slightly and mentally discredits what Neapolitan says even further. "Why do you think the Careers make a pack every year if it's a solo path?"

"We aren't friends," Shad says. "We're barely even allies. We're basically all going solo and sitting at the same lunch table."

"Be that as it may, it doesn't stop you getting help from your mentor. After all, I am here to help you win."

"How many times am I going to have to say that I don't need your help?" Shad yells, taking the empty tea mug and hurling it at the wall. It shatters on the dining room table, but Neapolitan doesn't even flinch.

He heaves a sigh. "Shad, nobody wins the Hunger Games without help. Even loners get aid from their mentors."

"I'm _different_," growls Shad.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you are," Neapolitan says. Shad can tell his patience is starting wear thin; surely that means he's going to leave him the fuck alone. "What I'm trying to say it that there's nothing wrong with a getting a little help."

"Yeah, sure, whatever. That's _exactly_ what they told us at Court," Shad says sarcastically, throwing in an eye roll for good measure.

Neapolitan scoffs. "As if anyone actually listens to what they teach there. They should teach the fighting, nothing more. The rest can be left up to the mentors. Would make my job a hell of a lot easier."

"If your job is so awful, why don't you leave me alone and go back to drinking your prissy tea in silence?" Shad snaps, starting down the hall to his bedroom.

"I hope you know that the Hunger Games are never straightforward, Shad," Neapolitan calls after him. "After all, the Games never give people what they want."

Shad stands there with his back turned and eyes wide for a moment before he says, "Yeah, whatever. Fuck off." He steps into his bedroom, slamming the door and turning on the lamp. He doesn't need Neapolitan and his stupid…stupid…stupid metaphors or analogies or oxymorons or whatever he was talking about! He's about to win this thing all by himself, and when he does, he'll take over for Neapolitan, he'll be a better mentor than Neapolitan could even imagine.

Now all he has to do is get from here to there, and he can see the finish line in the distance.

(But something tells him that the path there isn't straightforward.)

(Maybe it's his conscience.)

(He didn't know he had one of those.)

**A/N: It has been a **_**hot**_** second since our last update. I haven't even been having writers' block or anything. I've just been sitting around my house playing Animal Crossing instead of being productive.**

**1\. Will Jayce and Ishtar ever reconcile, or is this the end of their relationship?**

**2\. Is Kasumi's method good, at least in theory?**

**3\. Do you think Neapolitan is right about Shad?**

**4\. Will Shad ever become less egotistical?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: what is the last movie you watched?**

**My answer: I just watched Big Hero 6 again today, and I completely forgot how amazing that movie actually is. Like, the last time I watched it I was like nine or ten? So my movie tastes have drastically changed since then, but it is still so good. **

**-Amanda**


	28. Viewing From Afar

_Silas Euphemia, 38_

_Head Gamemaker of Panem_

The interviews are somehow the calmest yet most stressful part of the entire pre-games process. On one hand, Silas gets to sit and watch the tributes talk, and now that Graciela is in charge, he doesn't have to worry about being executed because a tribute goes crazy. And, sometimes what the tributes have to say can be interesting. Other times they are completely forgettable, but it still stands.

On the other, the Games begin in the morning, and Silas has enough to worry about with Lanai's wild planning.

Lanai is a point of stress large enough to give Silas migraines. She's far too overly ambitious, and despite the fact that she has nothing to lose, aside from a few college friends, Silas does not the feel same way. He has to keep in mind what is at stake here—and he desperately wishes that Lanai would do the same.

Rebellions don't happen overnight without something big happening. And in their current position, nothing big is happening any time soon.

The people have Panem have stopped caring. They've rebelled time and time again, and they always fail. They feel similarly to Silas—they have things they need to protect more than they want change. A tribute could walk out on stage tonight, stab Alistair McKinley, and cut off their own head, and the people of Panem would still shrug their shoulders and say "At least it wasn't my kid." Although, that event is not outside of the realm of possibility tonight.

But, no matter what happens, Silas will just have to pull through it and keep going. He always has.

"Hello, Silas," Graciela greets as she enters their private booth. "I hope you don't mind that I invited my…nephew, to join us tonight."

Silas's eyes slide to the left, finding Ezra himself standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. "Of course not. I'm sure you remember my trainee, Lanai."

"Yes," Graciela says tartly as she takes a seat beside him. The stage below remains dark, but it will be filled with their tributes in a matter of minutes. Silas can barely even imagine how it feels to be one of them. He has to admit; he's never been in a position where it was life one way, death the other. He's aware there is a clock ticking over his head, but it has, admittedly, never really been looked upon.

"Ezra's eighteenth birthday was just yesterday," Graciela says. "You know, he's very good in politics. I'm thinking of making him my vice president. What would you say to that?"

Silas swallows thickly and works his jaw for a moment. _He was sixteen last week. _"I think it's a wonderful idea, Madam President."

Ezra, from his seat on the other side of Graciela, almost seems to nod. Silas looks at him curiously for a moment before the stage begins to light up. "Oh, look!" he says quickly. "The interviews are starting!"

"Welcome, welcome!" Alistair McKinley booms from the stage. "Aren't we all excited to meet this year's lovely tributes?"

"Is he wearing a…bulletproof vest?" Silas whispers to Graciela.

"It was either that or we put Navarro in a straitjacket."

"Ah."

"Now, first up, we have the beautiful Calista Abbey of District 1!" Alistair says, settling down in one of the two chairs situated on stage.

Calista prances out onto the stage, wearing a shimmering, dark blue gown. "Hello, Alistair," she says politely, sticking out a hand to shake.

Alistair shakes her back and says, "Well! What a strong grip you have, Calista."

"Yes, well, I have been training since I was a child."

"Have you now!" Alistair says, nodding. "Well, Calista, I've been hearing a rumor that you weren't this year's chosen volunteer…care to tell us why you're here anyway?"

Calista is silent for a moment. "I came here to spite the world."

"And…?"

"The world said I wasn't good enough. I said I don't care. I came here to spite the world, and what it says I can and cannot do." Calista sits up slightly straighter and folds her hands into her lap. "I will spite. Them. All."

Alistair nods for a few seconds before he says, "So what's waiting for you back home?"

Calista chews her lip. "My best friend and my boyfriend."

"No family?"

"Well, my mother's dead and my dad…mm, he's just dead to me." Calista raises her head and levels her eyes with the audience. Several people gasp. "I'll spite him and everything he has ever said about me."

"And I'm sure you will," Alistair says, his voice seeming sincere, but Silas knows the man could care less about any of the tributes. He's heard him talk about them before, referring to them as nothing but dirt and subhuman vermin. "Calista Abbey of District 1!"

The crowd applauds in excitement, knowing now that at least one Career will be more than willing to kill.

Calista drifts off to stage left as Alistair welcomes Shad Marcum. Shad wears a deep red suit, accented with random splotches of brighter reds. Two long cords of crimson beads trail down his arms, ending in gloves that cover his hands.

"It certainly makes a statement," Silas hears Lanai say from beside him. "Not sure if it's a good one, or a bad one, though."

"Greetings, Shad!" Alistair says, extending a hand for Shad to shake.

Shad seems to be trying to break Alistair's fingers with how tightly he holds on.

Alistair finally pulls out of the shake and holds his hand close to his chest. "My…uh, my, what a strong grip you have…"

"Yes, it's much stronger than _Calista's_ could _ever_ be," Shad says proudly.

"Of course, of course," Alistair says, still cradling his hand. "So, I hear you got the same score as Scoria Primer, who is the leader of the Career alliance. Care to tell us how you feel about that?"

"I should be the leader, plain and simple," Shad says, shaking his head. "I am clearly the better choice, the stronger choice, the more levelheaded choice…just, the better choice all around. But…I will respect the poor decisions of my teammates. We are, after all, an…" Shad grits his teeth. "alliance."

"And quite a formidable one at that!" Alistair says, seeming eager to change the subject. "So, Shad, what's waiting for you back home?"

"Family," Shad says off-handedly, picking at a fingernail. "Couple of friends."

"No special girl waiting with bated breath?"

"Nope," Shad says. "Guess I'm a loner for life."

"Wow, he sounds like a ten-year-old," Lanai comments, rolling her eyes. Even Silas can admit that Shad clearly isn't the nicest person…but just about everybody has a redeeming quality. There are, of course, exceptions. Like Ezra, for example. He's just an asshole.

"I'm sure when you return to District 1, the girls will be clambering to get a piece of you," Alistair says. "Shad Marcum, everyone!"

The crowd is louder for Shad than they were for Calista. Perhaps it's the suit. Perhaps it's his high-and-mighty nature. Perhaps it's all of the girls already clambering to get a piece of him.

"Now, we'll speak to Shad's so-called "rival", Scoria Primer of District 2!"

Scoria wears a simple silver halter-dress. Trailing down her back are small chains accented with what looks like tiny knives. _It seems fitting for a Career,_ Silas muses.

"Welcome, Scoria, welcome!" Alistair says. "What a deadly dress!"

"It's rather hard to sit in," Scoria says in a dull voice.

"Yes, I can imagine," agrees Alistair. "So, I've heard you are the leader of the Career alliance!"

Scoria nods. "It was decided that I was the best option…"

"And?"

"That's it. I was the best option via popular vote."

"Ah," Alistair says, nodding in understanding. "Got anyone special waiting for you back home? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?"

"There is no room for love in my life…" Scoria says quickly. "There never has been anyone and there never will be anyone."

"Ah…huh," Alistair says slowly.

"This doesn't seem to be going how Alistair expected it to," Graciela says. "Scoria certainly is an enigma."

"Yes," Silas agrees blankly.

Alistair swallows and says, "Why is there no room for love in your life?"

"I don't need attachments." Scoria shrugs. "Love is nothing but a distraction. Falling in love is weak."

"Yes, I'm sure it is…" Alistair says tiredly.

Scoria lifts her head. "What, are you in love?"

Alistair seems taken aback by the comment and her tone. "No, no…Scoria Primer, everyone!"

For a Career, the response is surprisingly lackluster. _Apparently, a girl sitting on a stage and saying how pointless and distracting love is doesn't get her too many good points. Who knew?_

"Silas? Remind me to fire Alistair after the end of this year's Games," Graciela says.

"Will do."

Wonder Hammerfort is dressed in a red suit with a strange choker necklace. It looks almost as if Wonder's throat has been slit.

"That's an odd choice of outfit," Lanai comments with a raised eyebrow. "The choker especially. It seems almost…familiar."

"So, Wonder, I hear that you are going it solo," Alistair says.

"…other people make me nervous," Wonder says quietly in explanation.

"Ah," Alistair says. "So, what is waiting for you when you return home?"

Wonder is silent for a moment. "…I miss Wake."

The crowd seems to emit one large sigh of sympathy, or perhaps mourning for the loss of a favorite tribute.

"Do you?" Alistair asks.

"She promised me she would come home." Wonder sniffles a little bit, curling his arms to his chest. "She never lied to me before. Why would she lie?"

The crowd practically melts into a puddle of commiseration.

"Some people are _so_ gullible," Lanai says, rolling her eyes and gesturing to the crowd. "At least the kid can act."

"Wake was truly a one-of-a-kind girl," Alistair agrees. "I'm sure she's watching over you now."

"You think so?" Wonder perks up, lifting his head. "I'm going to win for her. I don't want her to have died in vain." He clenches a fist and sits up a little bit straighter.

"I'm sure you will," Alistair says as the crowd breaks into wild cheers for Wonder.

Alistair waits a few moments for the crowd to quiet down. "Now, let's meet District 3's Lana Meadows!"

Lana drifts out onto stage with a slightly forced grin on her face. She wears a floor-length white dress, but once she sits down, it starts to change color. It flickers through the whole rainbow, over and over again as she sits there.

"Alistair, can I ask you a question?" Lana asks, leaning forward.

"Of course!" Alistair says.

"Do you know anything about great Capitol movie directors?"

The audience laughs. Lana grins and gives them a thumbs up. "See, I'm supposed to write an essay about them for school, and I don't even know where to start! But I want to have it done for when I get back, you know? I don't want to get a bad grade!"

"Well, Lana, I happen to know some great Capitol movie directors. Perhaps, when you return from the Games, I could arrange an interview for you?" Alistair proposes.

"That would be great!" Lana exclaims enthusiastically.

"Now, your dress is certainly a showstopper," Alistair says. "It's very bright."

"I really think that my stylist has outdone herself," Lana says. "I mean, just look at all of the colors!" Lana's eyes light up. "Speaking of which, Alistair, I don't suppose you can think of a new color for me, can you?"

Once again, the audience laughs.

"Let's see…there's, uh…um…"

The audience continues to laugh the longer Alistair hems and haws.

Finally, he seems to give up and says, "I don't think I can."

"Well, every color that humans can actually see have been thought up!" Lana says with a laugh. "Of course, animals see colors differently than us—some of them see less colors and some of them see more color than we could ever even imagine. Isn't that fascinating?"

"It certainly is," Alistair says. "Lana Meadows of District 3!"

The crowd cheers for her. The Capitolites always enjoy a jokester…

"Her dress was practically mesmerizing," Lanai says tiredly. "I don't think I'll ever get it out of my head."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Silas asks playfully.

"It's certainly a thing."

Darwin is dressed in a black suit, but the black is hardly visible. The suit is covered in sloppy white writing, leaving only small patches of black visible. Silas leans forward and squints at Darwin, trying read what it says. After a moment, he is finally able to focus on one, and realizes that it is one word, over and over again:

Justice.

_The irony certainly is not lost on me, _Silas thinks, shaking his head. There is nothing about the Hunger Games that is just.

"You know, um, I'm used to always having the right words," Darwin says seriously, resolutely looking at Alistair. "Buuuut…I guess concussions kind of let all of the words fall out, right? I mean, I _never_ have to search for words—I always just kind of know what to say, you know? I just…I never stumble or stammer or anything! Words just make sense. But these ones don't. You know, I always get told that I talk too much. Do I talk too much? I think I talk too much."

"Well, you clearly have a lot to say," Alistair says slowly. "And that's good! Having a lot to say is always good, especially when you have the attention of the entire nation for three minutes."

Darwin swallows visibly and looks out toward the audience. "Yes. I do."

He suddenly whirls around and looks back to Alistair. "So, I'm in an alliance with these two others guys, right? Mercury and Sterne. And you know what's funny about that? All three of us are the exact same height. Who would have guessed?"

"What a coincidence!" Alistair says. "But…let's talk more about your injury, shall we?"

"Oh. Yeah." Darwin shifts his position. "Well, I was going to ask Afandina to join our alliance. He's not the same height as the three of us, but the offer still stood. He must have been having a bad day or something, because he just…punched me in the face! Who does that?"

Alistair just nods as the audience laughs.

"Well, see, back home, I've been punched before. I get into a lot of arguments—I guess you could say I'm rather stubborn and like to stand up for what I believe in," Darwin continues. "I've got a lot of words in my head, and there's got to be some way to use them, right? But I don't think I've ever been punched hard to get a concussion. Well, I've been beaten up before, but that's not really the same thing."

Alistair laughs a little and says, "Well, if I didn't know any better, I'd think I was talking to Brice Kylar!"

Darwin leaves the stage to cheers and laughs from the audience.

Ottilie is dressed in a blue and red dress. The base fabric looks like the ocean, blues and greens mingling together, but with each step, it shimmers to red and back to blue. _Red seems to be quite the theme this year_, Silas thinks as he shifts in his seat.

"Hello, hello, Ottilie!" Alistair says. "How are you tonight?"

"I'm excited, Alistair," Ottilie says, cocking her eyebrows. "Tomorrow is the day I've been waiting for my entire life."

"Is it now?"

"It's been my dream since I was a child to be the youngest chosen volunteer Victor in history. The previous record is held by Saior Waller, but not for long…" Ottilie trails off mysteriously, cocking an eyebrow at the audience with a light smirk on her face.

"How do you plan to achieve this dream?"

Ottilie glares at him. "I can't go around giving out my secrets, buddy."

Alistair nods quickly. "Of course not. But I must ask…if this dream has been yours for so long, why did you not capitalize on the last Quarter Quell? You would have been the correct age if I am not mistaken."

"The difference is the choice," Ottilie says haughtily, holding her head up high. "I was not the chosen volunteer in the past Quarter Quell; in fact, there was none. It was a bust year, and chances were that someone who didn't even train with the Academy would get chosen."

"You still would have been able to volunteer just fine, yes?"

"Let me rephrase that," Ottilie says, irate. "The difference is the _honor_. I'm only breaking records and stamping my name in the history books if I am chosen to do it. If I volunteer out of turn…I'd just be another Victor. And that is _last_ thing I want."

"Is winning not enough?"

"Winning isn't enough. Winning is only enough if I break something whilst I do it," Ottilie huffs. She rolls her eyes and says, "You know what? I'm done with this. Buzz me out for all I care!" Before she turns and angrily stalks off of the stage.

"Well," Alistair says with his eyebrows raised. "Let's move on to the next tribute, shall we?"

Bayou Hacksom comes out dressed in a sea blue suit covered in what appears to be painted-on fish. _They sure took "from District 4" to an extreme_, Silas thinks as Alistair greets the boy in question.

"So, Bayou, why did you volunteer for the Games?" Alistair asks.

Bayou shifts and says, "I want ta prove that us backwater folks can win too." He looks out into the audience for a few seconds, his eyes swerving over the crowd.

"Backwater?"

"Yeah, backwater. We're the, uh, not desirable people. Poverty and that stuff. We're not too popular with the tidewater people either." Bayou explains choppily. "I'm not very good at words."

"I can understand you just fine," Alistair says assuringly. "What do you mean by proving that the backwater people can win as well?"

"Well, all of the, the, tidewater trainees are better fed, better, better, built. They have the ad, advantage," Bayou answers. "Backwater trainees don' really volunteer, let, let alone win. I guess I want ta change that."

"A noble cause," Alistair agrees with a sagely nod. "When you do complete this mission, what awaits you in District 4?"

"The backwater folks are pretty, pretty, tightly knit," Bayou says with a shrug. "I know a lot of people are rootin' fer me back home…but ma parents, sister, grandma, and best friend most of all. Everythin' will get so much better fer 'em if I win." Bayou smiles at the audience, the grin surprisingly genuine for what the Careers have previously showed.

Bayou receives average cheers for a Career; he certainly doesn't have any girls swooning over him like Shad did. Silas wonders if that is, perhaps, a trait of backwater citizens, just as those from District 1 are likely more attractive than they should be.

District 5's Liesel Leenheer is wearing yellow. Her dress is form-fitting and sleeveless with a shimmering bodice and a skirt that is longer in the back than it is in the front. The only part of the outfit that isn't nice is Liesel's face—she looks tired. Like, _really_ tired. Tired as in she hasn't sleep in days, which can never be a good thing.

"Trouble sleeping?" Alistair asks.

"You could say that," Liesel says tiredly. "I have a lot to think about."

"What is that you have to think about?"

"Home. My ex. My current. My other ex. Everything," Liesel explains, her shoulders drooping. "Now that I mention it, I realize that my life is very wrapped up in romance."

"It sure seems like it. Care to share the story?"

Liesel sighs. "I love with a girl. Everything was…beautiful. Perfect. But she went off and cheated with another girl. We broke up, I got with another girl…and then came Tam. Gosh, I never would have expected Tam."

"Tam, as in Tamarah Colt? Of District 10?"

"The very same," Liesel affirms, leaning back in her chair. "I know that falling in love in the Games is dangerous, but sometimes…well, sometimes you just can't _help it_, you know? What Tam and I have…it's something special, Alistair. It's unfortunate that it's a relationship that was only built through loss."

"It truly is," Alistair says with another one of his sagely little nods.

"I only hope that Tam and I can have a few short days to be happy together before the inevitable bloody end…" Liesel trails off dramatically, seeming to be staring longingly at someone standing at stage right. "Neither of us are perfect, but we work. We work like I've never worked with someone before."

Liesel's words elicit several _aws_ from the audience. A starry-eyed district girl who falls in love with another tribute, a romance that can never be…well, it's been done. Yet it gets the Capitolites every single time.

Sterne Colvin comes onto the stage wearing a firetruck red suit, grinning from ear-to-ear. Silas is too far from the stage to tell, but something about it seems almost forced. It's no surprise, of course. How could he fault his tributes for trying to seem more confident than they are?

Sterne enthusiastically shakes Alistair's hand, seemingly missing the fact that Alistair wipes his own on his shirt once they let go.

"So, Alistair, I have something of an odd question for you," Sterne begins, leaning toward Alistair.

"Alright."

"Have you ever thought about how'd you like to die?" Sterne says in a tone that suggests it's a great joke.

Silas raises his eyebrows, his interest piqued.

Alistair gasps. "Well, no! Isn't that slightly morbid?"

_Hypocrite_, Silas thinks, biting his lip. _You're talking to a teenager who may be dead in less than twenty-four hours. Read the room._

"I have," Sterne says proudly. "I always wanted to do something spectacular before I die—like drive off of a cliff in a car full of loaded fireworks or something. I want my death to be memorable, you know? And I'd go as far to say that dying in the Hunger Games is pretty dang memorable."

"I would agree with that," Alistair says, seeming eager to change the subject. "So, Sterne, what is waiting for you back home?"

"Not much, I guess," Sterne says with a shrug. "I've got a few friends that I'd like to get back to, though. We really tear up those streets, you know? Everybody knows us. I'd like to think that's a good thing, but I'm honestly not so sure."

"I suppose it depends on why you're known to so many people," Alistair says.

"Yeah," Sterne agrees, shrugging. "Well, I'm going back to them. I don't care what it takes. I'm…willing to do whatever I have to to get back them." Sterne's eyes flit to the ground for a split second, his smile faltering, as Alistair bids him farewell.

"Now, let's meet the lovely Jayce Dotter of District 6!"

Jayce drifts onto the stage wearing a midnight-blue halter dress. Her hair is braided down her back and she wears what appear to be yellow earrings. She's smiling, but it hardly seems genuine.

"So, Jayce…" Alistair says. "I've heard a rumor that says you know Ishtar Marmaduke, of District 12."

Jayce sighs and says, "Yes, I know her. We were a thing, long ago, before I moved to District 6. We were in love, madly so, but our bonds were split." Jayce pauses for a moment, seemingly considering something. "I must admit, it feels somehow different from when we were younger. I _want_ to love Ishtar, and I do, but something about it feels wrong."

"I have a feeling you know something about the reason Ishtar volunteered, yes?"

Jayce looks out into the audience, her eyes searching endlessly for something. "Yes, I do." She looks up at the ceiling and continues. "When I left for District 6, I promised Ishtar that one day we would be together again. We agreed that when we turned eighteen, we'd volunteer for the Games, together. I was so lovesick I didn't understand what I was getting myself into."

"Very unfortunate," Alistair comments. "So I take it you weren't planning to volunteer, then?"

For a moment, Jayce says nothing. "I made a promise. I like to think I am a person of my word."

Alistair seems to want to press her further, but Larch Tyre is already standing off stage and he is forced to announce her for applause.

Speaking of Larch, he is dressed in navy-blue-and-silver suit. The sleeves are tight, likely designed to show off his perfectly-chiseled muscles to all of the adoring women in the Capitol. It would make much more sense if Larch struck Silas as someone to go for the sexy angle.

"So, Larch, do you have any family waiting for you at home?" Alistair begins, as per usual.

Larch lifts his head. "No. Everyone is dead where I come from."

"Oh, that's terrible," Alistair says. "What happened?"

"Let's just say…the streets of District 6 are not a pretty nice, and neither are the factories. I watched my own brother get his arm eaten by a haywire machine…and had to clean his blood of the cold stone floor. He was the last thing I had. The last piece of a broken puzzle." Larch drops his head, instead staring at the floor of the stage, eyes closed. "But, in the end, it's all survival of the fittest. Just like the Hunger Games."

"Speaking of the Games, what kind of chance do you think you have at victory?" asks Alistair.

Larch shrugs. "Pretty good, I'd say. I'm strong from years in the factories, and I understand what I have to do in order to survive. I'm willing, I'm prepared…and I'm going to win. There may not be anything left for me in District 6, but I'll make my own future if I come out as the Victor." He clenches his fists and levels his eyes with the audience, as if daring them to look away first.

"Larch Tyre, everyone!" Alistair calls. "Remember to join us for the second half of our tributes, after these important messages…"

**A/N: …eh, hi. **

**So it's been about a million years since I last updated and, once again, I have no real excuse. I just haven't been able to make myself write for months now. That said, I'm not giving up on this story. Not now, not ever. **

**I'm back now, and I'm ready to wrap up the pre-games and get into the actually interesting part. Because trust me, dudes, I probably have too much planned for the Games. **

**1\. Best interview?**

**2\. Worst interview?**

**3\. Are you as bored of Alistair McKinley as I am?**

**4\. Thoughts on Ezra's appearance in this chapter?**

**Random Question: why does Lanai comment that Wonder's outfit looks familiar? (you might have to do some digging for this one, but the answer is in one of my past stories. It's kind of silly connection, but I kept it anyway because why not?)**

**If it takes me another several months to update the second half of the interviews, you have my full permission to lock me in prison or something. **

**-Amanda**


	29. Bruises

_Silas Euphemia, 38_

_Head Gamemaker of Panem_

The stage lights come back on and the Capitol Anthem blares. Alistair comes out wearing a different suit, which begs the question of why he was always wearing the bulletproof armor.

"Welcome back, everyone! It's time to meet the last twelve tributes of the One-Hundredth, Fifty-Third Annual Hunger Games!" Alistair cries. "Now, let's start off with the lovely Eris Rowan of District 7!"

Eris's outfit is very on-brand: she wears a knee-length, dark green dress that appears to have actual tree branches woven through the fabric. It looks extremely uncomfortable to Silas.

"Hi," Eris says, sounding annoyed. "Can we make this quick? I can barely breath in this thing."

Alistair ignores her and plows on. "So, Eris, I think everybody here wants to know one thing: why did you volunteer?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Eris says. "That was my sister that was Reaped. I was just…paying it forward, I guess."

"Paying it forward? Can you elaborate on that?"

Eris rolls her eyes and says, "I paralyzed her by falling out of tree. She makes money for us, but I don't. I'm expendable, but she isn't."

Alistair nods as the audience sighs sympathetically in unison. "You've got quite the outfit there!"

"I hate it," Eris says. "I can't even sit down."

_That would explain why she is leaning on the chair opposed to sitting in it,_ Silas thinks.

"Fashion over comfort, yes?"

"Hell no!" Eris cries. "I'd pull this thing off right now if I could!"

Alistair gasps. "Let's…not do that. Doesn't quite fit our rating."

Eris stalks off of the stage to the sound of twigs snapping.

"Well," Alistair says decisively. "Let's move onto our next tribute, shall we?"

Mercury Harrigan is dressed in a simple black suit. His skin is pale and he appears almost sickly. Even from this distance, Silas can tell that he's shaking.

"Bit of stage fright, eh Mercury?" Alistair asks.

Mercury jumps and says, "Y-yes. S-stage…fright."

"So, Mercury, what do you have waiting for you at home?" Alistair asks.

Mercury doesn't say anything.

"Friends, family, pets?" Alistair prompts.

Mercury still doesn't say anything. His eyes have gone wide and are slowly perusing the audience.

"Plants? Sports? _Anything_?" Alistair says.

Ezra laughs from beside Silas and says, "I told him he needs to try a little bit harder. So far, he's not doing so great."

"No, he certainly isn't," Silas agrees.

"I-I-I—" Mercury stammers. "I…have, um, sib-siblings."

"Oh, do you?"

"Adopti-tive, yeah." Mercury looks down quickly, holding his arms close to his chest.

"What is wrong with him?" Ezra asks.

Silas resists the urge to glare at him in answer. "I'm not sure. He must just have stage fright."

"Yes, well… Mercury Harrigan, everyone!" Alistair says uncertainly.

Mercury hurries off of the stage to minimal applause. Silas almost feels bad for him—not because he's in the Hunger Games, but because he knows exactly what's wrong with him. And he knows that Mercury stands little chance tomorrow.

Lyndie Franklin is dressed in a baby blue, long-sleeved dress. One of the sleeves mostly covers her cast, making it almost possible to forget that she is significantly handicapped. Her hair is cascading down her back. She looks extremely young, like a naïve child. Silas wonders if that is just how she is, or if it's the angle she is going for.

"Hi, Mr. McKinley!" she says happily with a grin. There's something unnatural about her smile. It's too forced to be genuine, but Silas doubts most of the Capitolites in the audience have picked up on that. "How are you?"

"Alistair is fine, thank you," Alistair says.

Lyndie looks at him, confused. "Why are you referring to yourself in third person?"

Alistair does not seem amused. "I'm not. I'm saying you don't have to call me "Mr. McKinley"."

"Oh." Lyndie looks down. "Did you know I have six older brothers?"

"Do you?" Alistair says, sounding uninterested.

"I do!" Lyndie exclaims. "I miss them terribly. I really hope I can get back them. Do you think I will?"

"Of course," Alistair says.

Lyndie grins with a face full of childlike innocence.

"She's going to get eaten alive," Graciela says, shaking her head.

"Did you hear what the tabloids are saying about her?" Ezra asks. "Apparently, her escort talked…"

Silas knew that Lyndie was religious long before Nikita Lennox let it slip. He knew she'd be someone to watch out for, but if this is anything to go off of, she likely won't be much of a threat, whether it is an act or not.

Lyndie leaves the stage to sounds of sadness rather than applause. Even the bloodthirsty Capitolites have half of a heart, it would appear.

"Now…let's welcome…Navarro Lune to the stage," Alistair says dejectedly. The bulletproof vest underneath his suit coat becomes painfully obvious to Silas.

Navarro does not appear on stage.

Alistair glances to stage right and pulls his microphone away from his mouth.

"If Navarro stabbed another crew member…" Graciela says, putting her head in her hands. "God, I'll never hear the end of this."

Silas leans forward and says, "There's no way he could have run, could he?"

"I'd know," Graciela says, sitting up. "I'm the President of Panem, Silas, if a dangerous and likely-armed murderer were running around the streets I'd be the first to know."

"Fair point."

Alistair pulls his microphone back to his mouth and says, "Sorry; we're having some technical difficulties right now but we'll be right back…" With that, he dashes off the stage.

A few moments later, he returns. He is followed by Navarro, who now has his hands cuffed behind his back. His cheek is marred by a bruise which is swiftly turning purple and his lip is split.

"Oh, no," Graciela says. "He definitely stabbed another crew member." She gets to her feet and adds, "I'd better go check on damage control."

"So…er, Navarro," Alistair says, taking several cautionary steps away from him. "Where did you…get that bruise?"

"Like I'd tell you," Navarro growls. He flashes the audience with an uncomfortable smile.

"Okay…" Alistair says slowly. "So…how do you feel about going into the Games tomorrow?"

"It's going to be…bloody," Navarro says triumphantly. "Myself and my ally are going to dominate tomorrow."

"Your ally?"

"Oh, yeah," Navarro says in a low voice. He winks at the audience like they are all apart of some big joke. "My ally is a complete idiot, but he'll do…"

"Well! That's all the time we have so let's welcome Ainsley Platte to the stage…"

Navarro doesn't leave the stage. Instead, he rushes straight up to Ainsley and yells something to her. Ainsley rolls her eyes and shoves him away.

Ainsley's left eye is half-closed and ringed with bruises. Makeup is caked on her forehead, likely in an attempt to cover up another mark. "Fuck off," she says annoyedly. "Fight me tomorrow."

"I will!" Navarro answers. He starts to say something else, but is stopped by a Peacekeeper that drags him off of the stage.

"Nobody got stabbed, at least," Silas commiserates, relaxing at Navarro is at last pulled away from Ainsley.

Ainsley herself wears a glitter-covered tan dress. It goes off of her shoulders and reaches the floor, but looks like it could use ironing. Silas assumes she got into a fight with Navarro.

"So, can we make this quick? My head hurts after my fight with THAT BITCH NAVARRO!" Ainsley cries, her gaze trained resolutely off of the stage. "I mean, just _look_ at this shit!" Ainsley angrily gestures to her black eye. "But…did you see Navarro? Sure did a number on that bitch, didn't I?"

Alistair swallows and says, "Okay, then. What caused this fight with Mr. Lune?"

"It's all his fault, anyway," Ainsley says. "You'd think he would've learned to just sit down and shut up, but noooo!"

"Yes…" Alistair says uncertainly. "So…what's waiting for you back home?"

"Grain," answers Ainsley with a shrug. "Lots and lots of grain."

"No family?"

"Some family," Ainsley says. "Not that that matters, though."

"Oh…kay," Alistair replies. "Ainsley Platte, everyone!"

Ainsley leaves to surprisingly wild applause. Violence sells, apparently.

Everett Reed appears to be exhausted and jumpy. He is dressed in a bright blue suit which does not seem to fit his mood. Dark circles hang poorly concealed beneath his eyes.

"A little bit stressed, are we, Everett?" Alistair asks with a laugh.

Everett shrugs tiredly and says. "I guess, yeah."

"So, what would you want to do with your victory?" asks Alistair.

"I don't know," Everett says quietly. "My whole life is work."

"Work?"

"Work," Everett affirms. "I'm the main breadwinner in my family. I don't know what my little siblings will do if I die."

"That's very unfortunate," Alistair says. "I'm sure they will figure out something."

Everett looks down. "I hope so." He hangs his head and adds, "I worry about them."

"As any self-respecting person would." Alistair nods as if he understands completely, when Silas knows he has done nothing in his life but be pampered.

"I'm not completely sure that I _am_ a self-respecting person anymore," Everett admits, still looking down. "I'm…lost, I guess."

He fidgets with the hem of his coat, pulling at the seam as if he simply can't sit still.

"Everett Reed, everyone!"

Everett received few cheers. It doesn't come as a surprise to Silas. It just doesn't feel like many tributes are doing anything memorable this year.

"God, this is boring," Lanai says.

Graciela still has yet to return, and Silas certainly doesn't feel comfortable sitting there with no buffer between him and Ezra.

He glances at the man—no, the boy, he's still just a child—seated beside him. Ezra appears deep in thought, his eyebrows furrowed as he looks down at the stage. Silas wishes he could get a window into his mind, just to know what things he is planning.

The cameramen start experiencing technical difficulties; broadcasts to several districts suddenly cut out, leaving Silas to sit there and think.

His mind wanders to his wife and his daughter. Both are at their home right now, but Astoria is certainly already asleep. He loves his daughter so very much. It gives him peace of mind to know she will grow up safe in the Capitol, without the fear of the Games hanging over his head. She's so young, only three months old, but he knows she'll grow into a wonderful woman one day. He only hopes he'll be there to see it all.

Lanai wants more from him than he can give her. He has things to protect now, far more than he did when they first met several years ago. He didn't even know Rynna back then. So much has changed since then, and Silas just doesn't know how much he is willing to lose.

The cameramen give the thumbs up and Alistair welcomes Tamarah Colt to the stage.

Her dress would be stunning if weren't for the large stain on her stomach. She looks miserable: despite her done-up hair, her makeup is running and she stumbles slightly. The stain on her stomach still appears wet.

"Hey, hey, Alistair, how's it goin'? I'm havin' a pretty trashy night so far but maybe it'll get better," Tamarah says, seeming very happy.

Alistair doesn't bother to hide his disgust. "Are you…are you _drunk_? Right now? On stage?"

"Hell yeah, man," Tamarah says cheerfully. "Have you never done important things drunk? Totally takes the edge off, dude."

"Yes…well," Alistair says in a very haughty tone. "Why don't you tell us about your relationship with Liesel Leenheer and try not to vomit on my _expensive_ shoes?"

"Jeez, you're boring," Tamarah says with a huge grin. "Liesel and I are just…we fit, ya know? She's just…god, she's purty."

"Uh-huh," Alistair says slowly. "And what do you have back in District 10?"

"My drinkin' buds!" Tamarah says enthusiastically. "Gosh, I do miss them though. Hopefully I'll be back to 'em soon!"

"Where the hell did Tamarah even get alcohol?" Ezra demands.

"Her mentor is Celinda Oxford. What do you expect?" Lanai answers.

Ezra murmurs something, sounding annoyed.

"Your expensive shoes are ugly, by the way," Tamarah says.

Alistair takes a deep breath and says. "Well, you are entitled to your opinion. Your…drunken opinion."

"That's one high horse you've got there," snickers Tamarah. "They're just ugly shoes!"

Alistair sighs exhaustedly and says, "Tamarah Colt, everyone."

He glares at her as she leaves the stage, but the Capitolites seem to have found her uproariously funny.

"She'll be hungover tomorrow morning, won't she?" Lanai says. "If she's drunk and all."

"Probably," Silas replies. "Depends on how drunk she is."

Lanai just shakes her head as Afandina Hariri takes to the stage. He wears a suit that appears to be made of money. It looks as if it was sown from an endless amount of paper Caps. Normally, Silas would expect anyone wearing a monstrosity like that to rock it, but Afandina just looks tired.

"So, you know what I love?" Afandina asks. His face is drawn and he looks like he hasn't been sleeping very well, but he still seems to be putting on an act for the cameras.

"What do you love?" Alistair dutifully answers.

"I'm a bit of a gambler, Alistair," Afandina says confidently.

"Oh?"

"Oh, yeah," Afandina continues. "I love that rush—and I don't lose card games. I can bet however much I want on a match, because I'll figure out a way to win. It's just how I work."

"So you think you stand a good chance at winning the Games, then?"

"It's just a high stakes card game, isn't it?" Afandina responds. "I _never_ lose—and I certainly don't plan on this being the first."

_Well, there is a first time for everything_, Silas thinks, crossing his arms.

"Are you well off, then?"

"Er…" Afandina falters for a moment. "More or less, yeah."

Alistair seems uncertain of how to answer that. Instead, he simply announces Afandina's name, managing to absolutely butcher his last name.

Afandina's confidence seems to have won him Capitol admiration. Or perhaps they think he is attractive. It's usually one or the other. The Capitolites usually think with their hearts, not their brains. Or they simply don't think at all. Both are common.

Ashe Illyrian's dress is bright blue and covered in sunflowers. There are little flower pins braided into her hair and she has a placating grin on her face.

"So, Ashe, tell us about your alliance," Alistair says.

"Oh, yes," Ashe says cheerily. "My alliance consists of myself, Ainsley Platte, Lana Meadows, Lyndie Franklin and Eris Rowan. We may not be the strongest of the bunch, but we work well together, and I really think we might stand a chance!" She levels her eyes with the audience and adds, "We may be young, but you can't discount us because of that!"

"An excellent sentiment," Alistair says. "Do you have any family?"

"I have a fairly large family. I have two brothers and two sisters. My oldest sister is married so we don't see much of her, but the rest of my siblings still live at home." She heaves a sigh, her smile momentarily faltering. "I miss them terribly. That's why I'm going to fight. So I can get home to them."

"It sounds like you are all very close knit," Alistair answers. "What makes you think you could win?"

Ashe purses her lips and says, "I'm smart. I'm…not very strong, but I can use my head, and I can use it well. If I keep an eye on that and watch my back, I think I'll be okay."

"Well, the best of luck to you," says Alistair. "Ashe Illyrian, everyone!"

Ashe receives about as much applause as you can expect for a fourteen-year-old who admits she can't fight well. Silas can, however, appreciate someone who is good with words.

Quinn Bayers is dressed very simply; his suit is a dull silver, but Silas notices that there is a single sunflower tucked in his hair. He wonders if Ashe gave it to him.

"I think we're all wondering why you volunteered, Quinn," says Alistair. "It's rare that District 11 ever gets one of them."

"…I need money," Quinn admits after a moment.

Alistair waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. "…that's it?"

"That's it," Quinn affirms.

"You must be in some financial situation if you are willing to volunteer for the Games in order to fix it." Alistair cocks his head slightly, as if he's confused about why anyone would do such a thing.

"Yes, I suppose you could say that," Quinn agrees.

"Well, I'm very sorry—"

"No," Quinn says, quickly and sharply. "Don't do that. Don't pity me."

Alistair appears affronted. "Well, I'm sorry if I was simply offering my condolences."

Quinn glances at the audience and his anger falters. "I don't need your…your sympathy."

"Yes, that's obvious," Alistair says annoyedly. "I'm going to assume you're an orphan, then."

"I have a family," Quinn says, crossing his arms impatiently. "Just because I need money doesn't mean there isn't anybody in my life."

"Let's hear it for Quinn Bayers!" Alistair says, seeming eager to end this conversation and move on. "Now, we'll meet Ishtar Marmaduke of District 12…"

Ishtar wears a bright orange dress. It looks nearly identical to Jayce's aside from the color. The same halter-top and skirt length, just a different person wearing it.

"I think our most burning question is about Jayce Dotter of District 6—"

"District 12," Ishtar says tartly.

"What?" Alistair exclaims.

"District 12. Jayce is from District 12," Ishtar says simply. "Now…I don't want to talk about Jayce anymore. Ask me about my family or something."

Alistair seems annoyed by that. "Fine…what is your family like?"

"My parents are the definition of absentee," Ishtar says pointedly. "Jayce was the only thing I had…and now I don't even have her. I have, really, nothing at all."

"I thought you didn't want to talk about Jayce," Alistair says uncertainly.

"Well, she's the only thing in my life that actually matters!" Ishtar cries. "I've always been nothing without her and—and—and she was the only thing that kept me going, through years of being ignored! The thought that Jayce was out there just as in love with me as I was with her! But no! No—Jayce was—Jayce was in love with another girl! A girl would always be better than me!"

Ishtar sinks miserably to her knees and starts to cry.

Alistair distances himself from her and says, "You have had quite the life, haven't you?"

"What do you do when you have nothing, Alistair?" Ishtar asks as she wipes her tears. "What do you do when nobody wants you?"

Silas sighs. It's not the first time someone has had a breakdown on stage, and it certainly will not be the last. However, it's always uncomfortable to watch—just knowing that they are going through something and will be tossed into a death match in twelve hours…it often leaves Silas wondering how he ever condoned something as cruel as the Games.

"It is an interesting question," Alistair says, glancing out at the audience, and more importantly, the cameras. "I suppose I don't know how to answer that."

"I don't either," Ishtar says, getting to her feet and dusting off her skirt. "I wish I did. I wish I could know before I die."

Alistair doesn't answer that. Instead, he simply announces Ishtar and sends her on her way.

Geo Stryker's suit is simple and dark green. A sheen of sweat is obvious on his forehead, and he looks terrified.

"Greetings, Geo," Alistair says.

"Hi," Geo says quietly, his voice quivering slightly.

"So, what is waiting for you back in District 12?" asks Alistair.

"Um," Geo says nervously. "My parents are…are there. And my friends. I have some friends. That I need to get to home to."

He speaks very choppily, like he's giving himself ample time to backtrack between each word.

"Do you think you could ever win?" Alistair asks.

Silas notices a strange look on Ezra's face. Triumphant, almost.

As soon as Ezra catches him looking, he quickly averts his eyes and faces the other direction.

"I…I guess," Geo answers. "I could. M-maybe." He looks down, a grimace on his face. "I think that…that anyone could. Maybe."

He starts to fidget nervously. He wrings his hands in his lap but keeps his eyes trained on the floor.

"I would agree with that," Alistair says. "I think that anyone could win if the circumstances were to go right."

"Y-yes," Geo replies. "I think so. Too."

"Geo Stryker, everyone!" Alistair calls. The audience applauds politely as Alistair gives his closing remarks.

Silas gets to his feet and stretches. The interviews always feel ridiculously long-winded—there isn't anything there that interests him. He already knows everything there is to know about his tributes. Really, he would rather skip them all together and do something that actually relates to the Games in the morning. Like, perform last minute checks on the arena. Or make sure Lanai doesn't fuck him over and get him executed.

It is easier said than done.

As they leave their viewing box, a Peacekeeper approaches them.

"President Purdue has requested your presence in her office in an hour." The Peacekeeper glances at Lanai beside him and says, "Your assistant is required as well."

As soon as he leaves, Lanai glares and says, "Your _assistant_? I'm going to be Head Gamemaker next year; you'd think he'd show a bit more respect!"

"Do you think she needs help with damage control?" Silas wonders aloud as they make their way down the stairs. He glances toward the line of limousines pulling out from the front of the theater. He wishes he could go just go home—to Rynna and Astoria and perhaps to go to bed, but summons from the President can't go ignored.

He only hopes that tomorrow will go more smoothly than tonight has.

**A/N: Eyyyy it didn't take me months to update again! It was only like one month! Character development!**

**Anyways, I started high school and it sucks! It's literally been two weeks and I'm already so done with it. But I've already written more for this story since then than I did all summer, so I count this as a win. **

**1\. Best Interview?**

**2\. Worst interview?**

**3\. Best outfit?**

**4\. Worst outfit?**

**Random Question of the Chapter: who is your favorite tribute? (that isn't your own.)**

**My answer: well, obviously I can't answer that. **

**So, next up is the last night, where I'm packing in like six POVs because I'm trying to even it out, and then subplot! and the last morning. Trust me, it's going to get crazy from here on out and I am so excited!**

**ALLIANCES:**

_**We're Still Extremely Volatile This Year: **_**Shad (D1M), Calista (D1F), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M), Ottilie (D4F)**

_**Flower Power: **_**Lana (D3F), Eris (D7F), Lyndie (D8F), Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)**

_**Sad Lesbians: **_**Jayce (D6F), Ishtar (D12F)**

_**Disaster Lesbians: **_**Liesel (D5F), Tam (D10F)**

_**5'6 Gang: **_**Darwin (D3M), Sterne (D5M), Mercury (D7M)**

_**For Peace of Mind: **_**Everett (D9M), Geo (D12M)**

**-Amanda**


	30. Heads Will Roll

_Navarro Lune, 12_

_District 8 Male_

Heads will roll come tomorrow morning.

Heads will roll, and it will be glorious.

He has a new person to add to his hit list. Hell, he'll kill her in the morning if he can.

There is still a bit of her blood on one of his knuckles. He wouldn't wash it off even if he could.

Navarro has been confined to his bedroom until morning comes. As far as he can tell, the Capitolites are afraid he'll stab one of his mentors or something. He wishes that they knew he doesn't just attack people because he can. He's no psychopath; he only attacks when he has a good reason to.

Like, take Ainsley Platte for example. She may have blamed him for everything, but she should have never mouthed to him like she did. He absolutely had a reason to attack her. No one tries to break down Navarro Lune and gets away with it. Sure, Navarro threw the first punch, but still Ainsley fought back.

It was…almost exhilarating. Navarro just can't wait for the morning, when he can kill whoever he wants and no one will try to stop him. The Games have no rules; he can do anything and won't be punished. The exhilaration will never have to end; the adrenaline never has ebb. He can just kill and kill and kill and nothing can ever stop him.

He'll be on top of the world. A beacon to high to tear down. God, it's going to be _glorious_.

Maybe once he does this, and drags in so much money, his mother will pay attention to him. How could she ever ignore him after everything he could do? After the lives he could end, the blood he could shed, the games he could win? She would have to pay attention to him.

Navarro fidgets with the hem of his shirt and stands up. This is going to be the longest night of his life—there are less than twelve hours until the Games start, and every minute before then feels like torture.

But every second that the clock ticks is one second less until they begin. Until the gong rings and everyone bursts off of their pedestals and Navarro can kill until the cows come home.

He wonders if he can set a record for the quickest Games ever.

He'll admit; he's never paid much attention to the Games. The bloodshed is the biggest (and only) draw, so he watches the fights when the recaps come out and not much else. He doesn't care for the tributes; they're faceless, mindless drones who exist to die. They're so far beneath him that he doesn't even notice them. But when he watched Arthur Singlewave bash the head of Warren Oto in…now _that's_ good cinema. Much better than the stuff his mother watches.

Navarro stalks over to the bookshelf and starts reading the spines. Unsurprisingly, each book is either about the Capitol or the Games. Eventually he picks up one that boasts a summary of every Games to date—despite the fact that it says Hestia Olympia is the most recent Victor.

As it turns out, the shortest Games ever recorded last four hours, thirty-seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds. From the moment the gong rang to the last cannon firing.

Surely Navarro can best that. Only twenty-three people to kill in a few hours. If there are others joining in the fun—which there absolutely will be—it can absolutely be achieved, can't it? It might take some effort, but he has never half-assed anything.

Navarro snaps the book shut and throws it at the wall. It thuds to the ground, but he doesn't bother to pick it up. Really, he wants to go see Wonder. He misses having someone to control, someone who was afraid of him. Travis had always filled that role for him. Occasionally he'd take someone else with him, but Travis was just so much fun.

Wonder could be like that. Of course, until Navarro inevitably kills him. He wouldn't mind having a terrified lackey to follow him around and do his biding tomorrow.

But he had to go scare Wonder off. However, he does have to admit that it was quite fun to watch Wonder panic—it isn't something Travis or any of his other slaves would do, which just doubles the fun. If he could figure out how to trigger it…

He'll simply have to find some way to force Wonder to stay with him. He won't have a gun to hold up to his head, which is sincerely unfortunate. But there are other ways of making someone stay. Navarro knows that better than anyone.

He flops down on the bed and contemplates home. Perhaps his mother is lonely in her mansion, with no one but the late-payers in their cells to keep her company. He wonders what she'll do with Travis if he doesn't come home.

He sits up suddenly and shakes his head. He will come home. There is no doubt about it—Navarro will come home. No matter how he does it, how many people he kills, how much blood he sheds, he will come home.

After all, he is a Lune, and Lunes don't lose. They come out on top, no matter what.

Navarro will certainly be no different.

_Calista Abbey, 18_

_District 1 Female_

Heads will roll come tomorrow morning.

Heads will roll, and it will be necessary.

It's an awful, necessary evil. Perhaps it scares her. Perhaps it doesn't. She isn't quite sure anymore.

Divinity is of little help—she always seems preoccupied by something or another, and occasionally outright refuses to discuss strategies with Calista. Thus, the responsibility falls to Neapolitan alone, which no one is very happy with. However, Calista would rather share a mentor with Shad than have none at all.

Speaking of Shad, he ran off to his room before he could even eat dinner. Calista would like to think he's mad that her interview went better than his, but even she has to admit that Shad is more attractive than she is.

"Neapolitan?" Calista says as she pushes food around her plate. "Can I ask you something?"

Neapolitan looks up from his food. "…yes?"

Calista looks down and heaves a sigh. "I don't normally like asking for help…" She casts a pointed glare at Divinity before she continues. "…but can you give me some tips? You know, for, like, peace of mind?"

Neapolitan swallows and says, "Of course. I'm always happy to help out a tribute."

Calista relaxes her shoulders. It feels good to know that someone is backing her. The thought makes her toss another glare in Divinity's direction.

Still, tomorrow nags at her. The morning will come, and it will come all too fast. Before she knows it, the sun will be rising and she will be boarding a hovercraft. Before she knows it, the gong will be ringing in her ears and she will have to fight. She will have kill.

It remains an evil, but a necessary one.

She doesn't feel prepared. She always thought she was—if she wasn't, why would she ever have volunteered? Why would she have ever volunteered, even after coming in seventh place, if she didn't think she was prepared?

Because, for all she spouts about spite, about her father, about everything, Calista Abbey does not want to die. She has never, not even in her darkest hours, in the moments when she was at her lowest, wanted to die.

She doesn't want to die.

Which just means she'll have to try even harder to best her opponents, like she once did at the Academy. She was never supposed to be good enough, but everything is riding on that—Calista must be good enough.

Calista stands up suddenly and says, "Can we talk, like, now? While I'm thinking about it?"

She'll be thinking about it for the rest of her damn life, no matter how long it lasts. But Neapolitan doesn't need to know that.

"Getting cold feet, are you?" Neapolitan asks in a solemn voice as he follows her onto the balcony.

Calista doesn't reply. She thinks too highly of herself to ever admit it.

"I've seen it all before," Neapolitan says in a small voice. "Such confidence…such eventual loss. And…well, you know."

He rests his hands on the railing and looks down. The streets are filled with Capitolite partygoers, oblivious to their conversation. Oblivious to everything, really.

She does know. She does know what confidence could bring, and she'd never admit it. She'd never admit that she's afraid to die.

Still, she remains silent. She instead leans against the railing as well, looking down upon the people below her, the people celebrating what she's about to do. What she's about to kill.

"How do you it?" she suddenly blurts out.

Neapolitan looks at her, startled. "Do what?"

"How do you take a life?"

Neapolitan appears almost surprised by her question. After a few moments, he looks up and shrugs. "Some people just can't. Some people never come back from it. Some people do it easily, sometimes too easily." He levels his eyes with Calista's. "When the time comes, you'll know."

"What if I can't?" Calista asks, worry beginning to seep into her voice. "What if I can't take someone's life?"

Longs days in the Academy come rushing back to her in an endless array of memories. The voices of her teachers and trainers telling her to discount the lives of her opponents, to view them as nothing, nothing but sheep to be slaughtered. Their voices would drone on and on and on, reminding her that the bloodshed is nothing. The trail of corpses she will leave on the path that takes her to Victory is nothing. A trivial matter, they'd always say. Hardly even something to note, to worry about. As if they knew what it felt like. As if they had killed.

She never thought about the fact that there is no going back. She is far, far past the point of no return, and now she has to live with it—or die with it.

"If you can't, you can't," Neapolitan replies. He looks back to the seemingly endless sea of buildings and adds, "I don't think you have to worry about that, Calista. I've watched you fight. I could never figure out why you didn't place higher on the scoreboard."

_Seventh place_. It still bothers Calista, that she came in so low after everything she'd done. Everything she'd worked for, everything she'd ever fought for, only for it all to come crashing down around her. She will never forget that feeling—that feeling of falling, of falling with no way to stop herself. Of plummeting endlessly back to Panem, the body of her high horse falling beside her. Of being…_nothing_.

Well, she's here now, instead of Silvera Prowess. And she is not willing to throw it away to—to—to these ridiculous thoughts! She's tired, so tired, of never being good enough.

Calista Abbey is good enough, damnit! She's more than good enough. She's here, and that should be plenty.

"Sometimes…" she starts. "Sometimes we don't get what we want. I would think you'd know that by now."

"Do I ever," Neapolitan says quietly. "So, you wanted tips?"

_Scoria Primer, 18_

_District 2 Female_

Heads will roll come tomorrow morning.

Heads will roll, and it will be unavoidable. It's always unavoidable, no matter who it is. A faceless criminal. A masked soldier. A fellow tribute.

Favio.

_Favio_.

Scoria has kept him out of her mind for as long as she physically could. She doesn't need anything to distract her from her ultimate goal—revenge.

Yet, Favio haunts her. He always has. Really, he always will. He was her first (and last) love. The first person to ever make her feel something special. The first person to try, to stick by her side even when she yelled at him to leave her away. The first person to even bother.

He was her first (and never last) kill. The first life she ended. The first time she ever truly felt like she lost.

She'll never make the same mistake again.

Maybe she won't even live to consider it. Either way, whether she lives or dies, she just wants revenge. She wins, she returns to District 2 and puts an end to her father's tyranny. She dies, she spends all of eternity with Favio. She can feel alive even in death.

Scoria slowly gets to her feet and pushes in her chair. Hestia and Will have been arguing with each other for the past twenty minutes, their escort has gone out partying and Wonder has already disappeared into the bathroom. It's not like anything she does will matter to them anyways—sure, Hestia has been all over her, the cold Career girl with, seemingly, everything going for her—but what difference does it make? Wonder will probably be dead by sundown tomorrow, and Scoria will already have another kill under her belt.

She heads out onto the balcony. The sun barely peeks over the horizon in the distance, leaving only a miniscule sliver or light bathing the Capitol. She tiredly leans on the railing, looking out over the Capitol, wishing all of this was over already.

That was something she could never understand about her peers; somehow, they _relished _in bloodshed. Some found a sick sort of beauty in it. Others just loved the sight of the spilt crimson of their opponents.

It was their favorite part of the Games. They would watch to see the fighting, the gruesome death, the grisly remains. Scoria was always more interested in the strategy, the mistakes.

She used to watch the old Games. Any Games where there were Careers, she had watched at one point or another. She knew what it looked like to lose. She knew what they always did to lose—

They got cocky. They underestimated their opponents. They were too trusting. They weren't trusting enough. They took too long. They weren't interesting enough. They got boring. They weren't strong enough. They were too strong. They weren't pretty enough. They were too crazy. They weren't crazy enough.

There was no winning with the Capitol. Scoria had come to that conclusion long ago. After all, one can only watch so many fantastically skilled Careers fall before they start to notice a pattern, and Scoria noticed it long before now.

She looks back into the apartment and finds that Will and Hestia have disappeared. With one last glance to the Capitol, she returns inside and heads toward the T.V.

She grabs the remote and turns it on, quietly perching on the edge of the couch. She runs her hand through her hair, trying to pull the gel out of it as she scrolls through the seemingly-endless catalogue of movies on the T.V.

At last she finds what she's looking for. Every single Games in history has been recorded, and they all lie here, right at her fingertips. Back home, she only had access to the now-obsolete DVDs on them, which would scratch and become unwatchable.

After a few minutes, she decides to watch Will's Games. She's only seen them once, and what little she remembers isn't good enough for her.

Maybe it will take her mind of everything. She can stop thinking about her own mistakes if she nitpicks someone else's.

The lineup from the One-Hundredth, Thirty-Third Games was fairly normal; two prized, beautiful killers from District 1. A pair of fishermen from District 4, skilled with their tridents and nets. A volunteer from District 7, a girl who claimed to be getting money for a sick sibling. The two from District 11 were distant cousins, they said.

And then was Will. No one back home likes Will—he stole victory from their golden girl, Alana van Stelen. Scoria doesn't particularly care for Alana van Stelen—so perfect, everyone would always say. All Scoria could think was _If she was so perfect, why didn't she win?_

But Will was their sacrificial lamb. He existed to die.

The Bloodbath is uneventful, at least to Scoria. The girl from District 1, Shine Hartley, comes dangerously close to losing her head to the volunteer from 7. Instead, the girl from 7 who was there for a noble cause ends up with a knife in between her eyes.

The cousins from 11 die within minutes of each other on Day 3, which happens to be the day the Career Pack fractures. Tensions had been high leading up to that, which left Shine and her partner dead on the ground, and the fishermen from 4 retreating into the distance. Will attempts to run away from with them, but Alana grips his wrist tightly and keeps him in place.

Scoria picks up the remote and starts to fast forward. She stops at the Final Eight, when the boy from 6 accidentally starts a fire. The arena, which was almost entirely wood, goes up in seconds. He dies to it easily and smoke inhalation claims the boy from 4 and the girl from 9.

Alana and Will are forced to abandon the Cornucopia and all of the supplies inside. They leave with nothing but a few weapons and a bag of food, which Alana claims almost immediately. When Will protests, she twirls a knife through her fingers and says, "Remember, Slade. Who here is going to be the Victor? You?"

"No," Will says in a quiet, noncommittal voice.

"That's right," Alana says triumphantly, and the pair go on their way.

Scoria fast forwards some more, stopping only at the beginning of the finale, a four-way fight between Will, Alana, the girl from 4 and the girl from 3.

All four are chased onto the edge of a cliff by the unabated flames. Gidget Grace, the girl from 3, is unceremoniously pushed off into the roaring fire below. Alana stands victorious on the edge of the cliff, hands on her hips, knives in both palms.

"Come on, 4. Show me what you're made of," she taunts.

_She sounds mighty confident for someone standing on a cliffside_, Scoria thinks, shaking her head. It always comes back to cockiness.

The girl in question, named Finley Jackson, rushes Alana. They grapple on the edge for a few minutes before Will finally pulls Finley off and slits her throat. He tiredly tosses her sputtering body aside and makes a beeline for Alana.

"Nice going, jackass," Alana says as Finley's cannon fires. She looks at him for a long moment.

At the same time, they lift knives and lob them at each other. Will's knife slams in Alana's chest with enough force to knock her over, while hers digs into Will's shoulder.

"What the fuck, Slade?" Alana shouts, trying in vain to regain her footing. "You're supposed to—to—to die! To me! I'm supposed to be the Victor!"

Will stumbles forward, holding onto his shoulder. "That's the funny thing about the Games. They never go how you expect them to."

And then he shoves her off of the cliff.

"Turn that shit off!" Will suddenly yells from the doorway to his bedroom. "What the fuck, Scoria? Have you no—no decency?" His face is pale and one of his eyes is twitching.

Scoria quietly presses the power button the remote. "I didn't know you could hear it."

"It's just…just common courtesy, Scoria. Who raised you?" Will says, his shoulders relaxing.

Scoria doesn't answer. "It was impressive, at the very least."

"What? That I stabbed her? That's nothing, Scoria," Will replies. "God, if you think that's impressive, you're going to be slaughtered in the morning."

Scoria glares at him and jumps to her feet. "I'm going to go home, Slade. Mark. My. Words."

She will be winning. She will find a way to do everything right, to be interesting, and strong, and pretty, and sane, and everything that one has to do to win. She will do it all, and she will exact her revenge, no matter what Will or anyone else says.

Because when the unforgiving metal of a knife meets the warmth of human flesh, Scoria will be the one holding the handle.

_Sterne Colvin, 14_

_District 5 Male_

Heads will roll come tomorrow morning.

Heads will roll, and it may very well be his.

He can't get that stupid notebook page out of his head. His world is slowly falling to pieces around him, yet the only thing he can think about is his stupid name on that stupid page in that stupid notebook. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sterne will not lie—he can't lie, not about this. He can't stop himself from thinking about it:

He is going to die.

It was something he always knew, at least somewhat. He has always known that it was on the distant horizon, something just cowering in the background of his life, always just beyond reach. He had had so many brushes with it, so many careful pass-bys, but he had never even noticed. Never even taken notice of his awful mortality.

He's circling. Just going around and around and around and it never ends. It will never end.

_It does end,_ he realizes. It does end. It ends when he dies, which could be so, so soon. Tomorrow morning. Less than twelve hours. A cold knife entering his heart, and then—black. Death. Whatever is beyond the curtain. There was once a belief that was a good place and a bad place when you die. Heaven and hell. Maybe that's what waiting for him. Or maybe it's just eternal black, no sense of anything, no consciousness at all.

"Sterne?" a voice says behind him, halting his mindless pacing in its tracks. "Are you alright?"

He has half a mind to snap at Ave, demand how she could ever think he was alright when he is on the cusp of ultimate destruction. He goes so far to whirl around, glare daggers at her, and open his mouth.

However, instead, he bursts into tears.

"I'm going to die!" he cries, balling his hands into fists, tears carefully making their descent down his cheeks. "I'm going to die, and you're asking me if—if—if I'm alright!"

Ave doesn't say anything for a long moment. At long last, she puts a hand on Sterne's shoulder and says, "You're going to be okay, Sterne."

"I'm sure that's what you tell to everyone," Sterne says through his tears. "And look where they ended up—in a grave, underground, _dead_. I don't want to be dead, Ave! There's so much I want to do, too much I want to do, to waste it all by dying in the Hunger Games!"

Sterne doesn't know what he wants to do. All he knows is that this far, far too soon for anyone to die. He hasn't had his first love, his first broken heart, his first job, his first home, his first anything, really. He hasn't had anything but a plethora of scrapes and broken bones, and that's no way to spend your life.

Ave purses her lips and hands Sterne a tissue. "Sterne, I know that you're struggling right now…" she pauses for a moment, as if uncertain of what to say or how to say it. "But you need to…get it together, you know? If you really don't want to die, then you need to act like it."

Sterne wipes away his tears and blows his nose. He doesn't meet Ave's eyes. "I don't know how to do that. I don't know how to do anything."

He has done his best to act nonchalant about all of this. No one needs to know that he is falling apart, and he doesn't even know why. He's never done anything like this—anything as high stakes as the Games. He has never had so much to lose. Well, he's not sure he's ever had anything to lose.

"I'm scared."

"I know," Ave says.

"I don't want to lose anything. I don't want to lose my allies, or my limbs, or my—life," Sterne continues, eyes trained on some unseen point in the distance.

Ave opens her mouth to reply, but before she can, the elevator doors open and Liesel stumbles out. Ave takes one look at her and says in her most-disapproving tone, "Liesel Leenheer, have you been drinking?"

"No!" Liesel answers quickly, standing up straighter. "No, I swear I haven't. I was…just with Tam."

"Mm-hmm, Tam the drunk." Ave crosses her arms and fixes Liesel with the look of a disappointed mother who caught her child drawing on the walls.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Liesel says moodily, dropping onto the couch and throwing Ave a glare for good measure.

"It _is_ a bad thing, Liesel. I'm sure Tam is a lovely person, but she's not the kind of person you want to consort with in the Games—"

"Maybe I don't care!" Liesel yells. "Maybe I don't care if Tam is a bad ally or not! Maybe it doesn't matter! Maybe I just want to feel alive in the last few days I spend in Panem!"

Ave seems momentarily taken-aback but powers on anyway. "Have you no drive to live, Liesel?"

"I've lived plenty," Liesel says coldly. With that, she sweeps away, stalking toward her bedroom with her head held high and her shoulders back.

She makes it to the doorway before Sterne stops her and calls to her, "How have you lived? What have you done?"

Liesel exhales angrily and whips around. "Look, kid, I'm not a virgin, I've had several lovely girlfriends, I've been cheated on, I've been drunk, I've been high. I've done the lot of it, so I figure I may as well die now."

"That doesn't really sound like living to me," Sterne says quietly.

He sees a vein pop in Liesel's neck. "Listen here, you little bitch, I've lived more than I need to. I've done so much more than you ever will, and I—I—I—" Liesel goes silent for a second. "I'm not afraid to die. I just don't want to die alone, got it?"

And then she's gone, the door to her room slammed in Sterne's face. Inside, something hits the ground, making Sterne flinch in surprise.

He glances at Ave, and then at her notebook on the table.

That's when Sterne realizes it:

He's not afraid of dying.

He's afraid of dying _too soon_.

_Ashe Illyrian, 14_

_District 11 Female_

Heads will roll come tomorrow morning.

Heads will roll, and it will be one of her allies.

Undoubtedly. Absolutely, unequivocally undoubtedly. Someone will die. Whether it be Eris, Ainsley, Lyndie, Lana or herself, someone will die.

Someone always has to die—and in order for Ashe to make it home, all of them have to. Twenty-three heads must roll. Twenty-three lives must be lost. Twenty-three innocent lives, the lives of those just trying to do the same thing…

Ashe shakes her head. She can't be thinking like this, not when the Games start in less than twelve hours. She can't think of the other tributes as human, as people to regarded as equal. If she does, she'll never be able to end their lives.

Or, at least, that's what she assumes. If someone burst into the bathroom right now and demanded she go outside and stab Quinn to death, she could never do it. But the Games change things; whether it be good or bad, the Games cause change.

She'd always been told that no one is ever the same after the Games: even a quick look at Brice and Meadow proves that well enough. A glance at Macy Barker's leg, at Arthur Singlewave's hand, at the endless Caps that therapists make off of their district's Victors.

She's heard that people leave a piece of themselves in that arena, next to their first kill. The first person that they spilt the blood of. The first grave they dug. The first family they caused to grieve.

Ashe reaches out and violently turns the water hotter. The sound of the water hitting the tiles are supposed to drown out her thoughts—but Ashe has never been good at shutting up her brain. Her thoughts circle around and around and around and never seem to come to a point. There's always been too much going on in her head, too many voices yelling and thinking and believing. There has always been so much happening for her to have peace.

And peace certainly will not happen with the Games so close. With, most likely, her death so close.

Ashe has thought of death. She has thought of it more than the average fourteen-year-old likely should. In the late hours of the night, when the stars twinkle outside her window and Stevie and Davis are fast asleep beside her, her mind wanders. It wanders to the deepest corners of her conscious and keeps her awake all night.

_What happens when we die?_ She used to wonder as she started at the worn ceiling, wondering why her brain could never just be quiet. _Does dying hurt? Will I ever know? Or will I just be dead?_

She is, after all, just a kid. She doesn't want to die. There is so much she wants to do—she wants to change the world, to make someone's life better, to do something with her little time she exists in Panem.

She had always been told she was too smart, too smart for her own good, everyone would say.

"It will come back to bite you, one day," they'd always say. People on the street. Her teachers. Her parents, sometimes.

Intelligence us valued lowly in the Districts; intelligence leads to thought. Thought leads to discontent. Discontent leads to rebellion. Rebellion leads to the death of the innocent. Intelligence was only valued if it could be exploited.

_Well, _Ashe thought as she turned off the shower. _Here I am! The world always told me I was so smart. Does none of that matter to you?_

It doesn't matter, and she knows it. Oh, does she know it.

Ashe dresses quickly. She's so tired of being cooped up in this building. She's tired of feeling trapped.

The hems of her pajama pants are too long. They leave her tripping over them as she exits the bathroom. They stand as nothing but a reminder that she doesn't matter; one day, she will be nothing but the sound of a cannon and a face in the sky.

It scares her. It really does. The idea that she will be nothing, nothing but a fleeting memory for the people she once knew to grab onto until it eventually slips through their outstretched fingers. That she will be forgotten.

Her room is dark despite the bright Capitol parties that are pouring in through the window. Without bothering to turn on any lights, she crosses to the dresser and removes the notebook from the top of it.

It's not her token; it's far too large and far too dangerous for her to be allowed to take it into the arena. Besides, it's almost full anyway. She wouldn't want to ruin all of her thoughts, carefully laid out in a vomit of words.

She doesn't pick up the pencil. No, Ashe wants to keep this notebook pure. Whether she wins or loses, whether she dies or lives, she wants to notebook to never have a sign of the Games on it. No blood. No suffering. No slow descent into insanity. Every word it in belongs to an Ashe that lives in District 11; an Ashe that doesn't have to worry about tomorrow. An Ashe that's biggest problem is if Lucas has a crush on her or not.

She quietly pages through it, her eyes drifting over the pages as if reading the words of a ghost. She can put on a smile for her allies all she wants, but Ashe knows she isn't the same, and never will be. Whether her life lasts two weeks or twenty years.

Ashe isn't the same. She hasn't even ended a life, hasn't even entered the arena, but something has changed. Something has shifted that she knows she can never fix. It doesn't matter what happens tomorrow. Ashe has already let the Games change her, and there is no going back.

_I met a girl named Kitty today…_

_There's a new stall at the farmers' market…_

_I cooked my first meal…_

_There's a new boy in my class…_

_Julia got engaged to the mayor's son…_

_I ran into a rabbit just now, by the creek…_

Every note has no idea of what is coming. Every note is so meaningless, so inconsequential that Ashe can't even imagine writing them down. Every note is from an old Ashe; the Ashe she wishes she could still be. The Ashe she wants to fight for, to be again.

Ashe quietly shuts the notebook and drops it behind the dresser. If she comes back, she can retrieve it and take it home. If she doesn't…well, it's a treat for whoever occupies this year next year.

She moves instead to the window and peers down toward the street. Droves of tipsy Capitolites parade past the Tribute Center, celebrating the Games and all it entails. They hold lights and streamers and glowsticks, all done up in their ridiculous feathery outfits and updos as they party their way toward the morning.

She heaves a sigh and returns to the dresser. She is nothing but a betting number to them, and she can't imagine anyone is putting their Caps on her victory. There is nothing to note about her; nothing that makes you think "Victor" when you look at her.

But those people down there are celebrating her imminent demise.

And Ashe hates them for it.

_Darwin Abner, 15_

_District 3 Male_

Heads will roll come tomorrow morning.

Heads will roll, and he isn't prepared.

Darwin may as well be one of them; he's vulnerable, he's inexperienced, he's previously concussed and generally stupid. He isn't prepared for any of this.

This is a situation that Darwin cannot talk himself out of. Words don't cut like knives do—it doesn't matter if he can pick apart the self-esteem of his opponent if they're holding an axe to his chest.

He's so unprepared it's almost sad.

Of course, Darwin never thought it would be him. However, that's what everyone says about anything—whether it be winning a random contest or being drawn at the Reaping, everyone always says they never thought it would be them. That they thought it would be Cathy, who works at the grocers, or Frank, the mayor's son, or Jane or Alexander or Ethan or Jonathan.

Not him. Not Darwin. Never. Never him.

Except for the tiny fact that it _was_ him; it _was_ his name that was picked out of the bowl, and now, he'll die for it.

He shakes his head, hoping to clear these thoughts, and pushes open the door ahead of him. The wind on the roof whips wildly around him, blowing his hair into his eyes and batting his clothes around. It doesn't really bother him, though. He just quietly walks to the edge and looks out.

The Capitol is much nicer than District 3, he notes. District 3 is larger, with just as many tall buildings, but it's grittier, older, more dilapidated. There just isn't enough money for people to renovate. There's barely enough money for people to survive.

He wonders what it would be like, to live such a frivolous life. More Caps in the bank than you could ever count, expensive food and furnishings and clothing…it sounds like an excellent life to live. At least there would always be food on the table and clothing to wear. At least you'd be surrounded by the beauty and unbelievability of the Capitol.

Darwin has only begun to marvel at its endless magnificence when he notices that he isn't alone. Behind him, seated in the dark of the rooftop garden, sits seemingly another tribute. It's a larger tribute, which makes Darwin fear that it's a Career. He doesn't need to give someone like Shad or Scoria a reason to target him tomorrow.

"Um, hello?" he says after a moment, taking a step away from the railing.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever notice me," they say, getting to their feet.

After a moment, Darwin recognizes him as Larch Tyre, from District 6. He swallows hard and says, "What are you doing up here?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

Darwin sighs. "I came for the view. When I stand up here…it almost feels like the Games can't touch me."

Larch is quiet for a moment. "I don't feel the same way."

Darwin returns the railing, turning his back to Larch. "Did you come for the garden?"

"Yes." Larch suddenly appears beside Darwin, eyes trained on some unseen point in the distance. "The greenery is…comforting."

Darwin shifts his position so he stands a few inches further from Larch. "There isn't a lot of greenery in District 6, is there?"

"No," Larch answers. "There isn't in 3, either."

Darwin purses his lips and looks down. "I know we just met, and we're probably going to stab each other in the morning but…do you really think you've got a chance? Or were you just saying that for the cameras?"

"I think I have a chance," Larch says tartly. "I'm strong, I'm…not unintelligent, I'm conventionally attractive."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"The Capitolites think with their dicks, not their brains," Larch says, his voice surprisingly serious.

Darwin cracks a smile and looks down. "So…do you think you could win?"

"I'm…not entirely sure," Larch admits. "All I know is that I don't want to follow my family into the dark."

"Your whole family is dead, right?" Darwin asks.

"Yes."

"How did it happen?" Darwin asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. "You said your brother died to a machine in a factory, but what about your parents? Oh, wait, did you have any other siblings? Did they all die at once? Was it sickness or was it sudden or—"

"They simply died," Larch says harshly. "That's all there is to it, and if you're going to harass me about it, I'm going to go back inside."

Darwin looks down. "My apologies. Sometimes I…kinda forget where I am."

"Yes. Clearly."

"Um," Darwin says. "Can I ask you a question?"

Larch sighs. "Yes."

"Would you have any interest in joining my alliance? I'm sure Mercury and Sterne wouldn't care, and I can just ask them if they do…"

Darwin trails off, a realization hitting him. He won't get the chance to ask Mercury and Sterne if they're okay with allying with Larch or not. For all he knows, Sterne and Mercury will be dead by noon. Hell, for all he knows, Mercury, Sterne, Larch and himself could all be dead by noon. There's just no telling.

There's just no telling, and Darwin hates it.

Larch doesn't answer right away. Eventually, he says, "I…thank you for the offer, but I'm going it alone."

"Oh," Darwin says in a small voice. "Well, at least you didn't punch me like the guy from 10 did, right?"

"I still can."

"Please don't," Darwin says. "I would like to, at the very least, be able to process full sentences by tomorrow."

Larch emits a small laugh. He opens his mouth to say something, but is suddenly interrupted by the door bursting open.

Three Peacekeepers rush onto the roof and approach them.

"Darwin Abner, Larch Tyre, you are required to be inside your apartments immediately," one of them barks, prodding Darwin with his gun.

"What?" Darwin splutters, trying to ignore the gun barrel pressed against his arm. "Why?"

"Your orders are to be inside, and stay there until you are escorted to the hovercraft. Now."

Darwin and Larch exchange a look of confusion as the Peacekeepers shove them into the stairwell. Larch disappears into the elevator almost immediately, leaving Darwin to simply take the stairs.

As he walks, he wonders if anything he said to Larch will ever matter. If it comes down to it tomorrow, will Larch have the willpower to push the knife into his heart?

Hell, if it comes down to it, could Darwin ever push it into Larch's? Could he ever kill someone he now views as human, just like him?

In all likelihood, he couldn't.

His footsteps quickly turn into the only sound to be heard in the stairwell. He isn't quite sure where the three Peacekeepers went, or what happened, or anything, really. All he knows is that something bad must have happened.

As he approaches District 3's floor, he hears Thalia talking inside. He slows his steps and comes to a stop just outside of the entrance, hoping that maybe Thalia knows something he doesn't.

"There's no way they can do this," Thalia says, presumably talking to Rocket.

After a moment of silence, Thalia continues, "It's practically ludicrous! Why, if these Games go off without anyone more hitches, I'll…eat a hat!"

Darwin imagines Thalia throwing her hands up in frustration in the silence that indicates Rocket is replying.

"They can't seriously be planning to go on with the Games without a—Lana, what in Panem are you doing out of bed?"

"I—I, uh…"

"Come on, you need to sleep if you can."

The sounds of footsteps accompany Thalia's words. After a few moments of silence, Darwin hears a door open, and then Thalia says, "Where is Darwin? He isn't in his room!"

Darwin swallows and steps into the apartment. "I'm right here, Thalia. I was just on the roof with—" He pauses. "No-one, I guess."

Thalia sighs in frustration. "Well, at least you're here. Now, please go to bed. It's nearly one a.m."

"Okay," Darwin says as he quietly crosses the apartment.

Lana's closed door catches him as he passes. The name on it is spelt _Lanna_.

It's a subtle reminder that tributes don't matter. After all, tributes are either Victors or corpses.

**A/N: I'm actually very happy with how this chapter turned out. I probably could have done Navarro's POV better but nothing felt quite right with him, but other than that I'm pleased.**

**1\. Which of these tributes are the most prepared for the Games?**

**2\. Least prepared?**

**3\. Which one of these tributes do you think is most likely to win?**

**4\. Finally, what (or who) are they planning to do the Games without?**

**ALLIANCES:**

_**We're Still Extremely Volatile This Year: **_**Shad (D1M), Calista (D1F), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M), Ottilie (D4F)**

_**Flower Power: **_**Lana (D3F), Eris (D7F), Lyndie (D8F), Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)**

_**Sad Lesbians: **_**Jayce (D6F), Ishtar (D12F)**

_**Disaster Lesbians: **_**Liesel (D5F), Tam (D10F)**

_**5'6 Gang: **_**Darwin (D3M), Sterne (D5M), Mercury (D7M)**

_**For Peace of Mind: **_**Everett (D9M), Geo (D12M)**

**-Amanda**


	31. Bullets Fly

_Lanai Hollister, 21_

_Tribute Analyst / Future Head Gamemaker of Panem_

Damage control, Silas said.

_Damage control, my ass_, Lanai thinks.

Gamemakers don't do _damage control_, at least not until the tributes are in the arena, and even then, they just set people on fire or sic some mutts on whoever is causing them problems. They don't worry about their tributes until they are in the arena. It's someone else's job. A job someone else _gets paid _to do. Hell, there's a whole department of Damage Control somewhere in the City Center.

She falls in step beside Silas as they make their pilgrimage to Graciela's office. She, too, wishes she could go home. It's not like she has anybody waiting for her or anything. She hasn't seen Cass or Sabre in several months. Her tiny apartment isn't anything to sneeze at.

But it is where she makes her plans. It's where she stays up all night, working away at her desk in the hope that way day she can pull all of this off.

And whatever Graciela wants them for, whether it be damage control, to discuss the Games or to play a board game, it will not change anything. For with the right plan, and a lot of luck, the One-Hundredth, Fifty-Third Annual Hunger Games will be a Games to remember. They won't remember the tributes, or the arena, or the mutts. They will simply remember it because it will be the last.

"Lanai," Silas says suddenly.

"Hm," Lanai hums, glancing at a window that they pass.

"Can you promise me that you'll behave in this meeting."

Lanai glares at him. "What, like I can't be quiet?"

"You _can't_ be quiet, Lanai."

"I can be quiet when I want to be," Lanai says sharply.

Silas rolls his eyes as they come to a stop outside of Graciela's large pair of heavy oak doors. They both simply stand there for a long moment, neither speaking, neither moving, before Silas raises his fist and knocks.

"Come in," Graciela says from inside.

Silas enters first, Lanai not far behind. The door slams shut behind them with a sense of finality, as if they are now trapped in Graciela's office.

"So, I'm sure you both saw Navarro Lune's antics on the stage tonight," Graciela says, seated at her desk, a color which matches the doors.

_Yep, damage control_, Lanai thinks, fighting with herself to avoid rolling her eyes.

"Yes," Silas says with a pointed look at Lanai.

"And, because of that…" Graciela begins nervously. "I have a favor I need to ask of you."

"What kind of favor?" Silas says uncertainly, leaning forward.

"I need you to make sure that Navarro does not leave the Bloodbath alive."

Silas and Lanai share a look. "Surely we can't get away with rigging the landmines twice," Lanai says, arms crossed over her chest. "It's simply too suspicious."

"Yes, and that's not what I'm asking you to do," Graciela says impatiently. "I want a tribute to kill Navarro. Plant him between Careers, order someone to take him out, do whatever you have to. We can not run the risk of Navarro winning."

"It's a little bit late for that, President Purdue," Lanai says. "Caius already drew up the plan for the launchpads and we'll have no way to get a message to a tribute."

"I just need him gone," Graciela says carefully.

"There are better ways to kill someone than rigging it, Madam President," Silas says tightly. "Less…suspicious ways."

"I understand that, Mr. Euphemia," Graciela says, lifting her chin.

"But won't it be too obvious?" Silas answers. "If a tribute goes specifically for Navarro, with no prior knowledge of him, won't it be too suspect?"

Graciela suddenly stands up and exclaims, "I don't know, Silas! I just need him taken out before he causes anymore issues."

Lanai takes a step forward. "You'll only create a martyr."

It's not necessarily a bad thing, at least to Lanai: the districts are restless. They want change, but they don't know how to incite it. There has to be someone who proves to them that the Capitol is truly doing wrong. It doesn't matter who. Navarro wouldn't be ideal, but he would work just fine.

Graciela scoffs. "Nobody is looking to Navarro Lune to start a rebellion."

_You have no idea_, Lanai thinks.

Graciela shakes her head and continues. "I want these Games to go off without a hitch, Mr. Euphemia. We certainly don't need a disastrous Hunger Games on top of everything else going on."

"Everything else?" Lanai repeats. "What else is going on?"

"Haven't you heard?" Graciela says tiredly. "The Districts are growing more restless by the day. There are whisperings of rebellion from over half of the outer Districts." She heaves a sigh. "The last thing I need is a full-fledged rebellion before I've been in office for five years."

Lanai certainly hasn't heard of rebellions brewing. Hell, she was in the Districts six months ago, and no one was trying to incite change back then.

"And Ezra isn't making it any easier," Graciela says.

"What's the problem with Ezra?" Silas asks carefully.

Graciela gapes at him. "He wants to solve violence with more violence. A group of rebels burn down fields of crops in District 11? Burn down their homes and execute their families. He doesn't seem to understand that he only creates martyrs by doing so."

"What, are you some kind of pacifist?" Lanai asks incredulously.

"Of course not," Graciela says flatly. "I simply understand that there are better ways to stop a rebellion than shooting at it."

_Is that not what the Hunger Games is? _Lanai wants to ask. _Are you not quelling violence with more violence? By taking the Districts' children and forcing them to fight, are you not creating martyrs?_

But, for once in Lanai's life, she keeps her mouth shut.

"If you want to quell dissenters," Silas begins in a careful voice. "Killing Navarro certainly will not do it."

"That's not my goal, Mr. Euphemia," replies Graciela. She drops heavily into her chair. "If I didn't know better, I'd put together a plan to get rid of the Games altogether."

Both Lanai and Silas freeze. Lanai looks to Silas for a long moment before she says, "…why can't you?"

Graciela laughs, but doesn't seem to find it humorous. "The Capitol likes its old ways. They don't want change. Besides, if we get rid of the Games, the Capitolites will have to come to terms with the fact that they are no better than the Districts."

Silas and Lanai eye each other.

"You know, these kinds of changes don't happen overnight," Graciela continues. "And if I didn't think the Capitolites themselves would stage a coup over it…I'd start working on phasing it out right now." She pauses, as if gaging Lanai and Silas's reactions. "There are better ways to punish a disgruntled public, you know. You don't just have to kill their children."

They are mighty brave words for the President of Panem to say to the Head Gamemaker and his trainee.

Lanai starts messing with a cup of pens on Graciela's desk. "…I agree with you, Gr—Madam President."

Graciela offers her a small smile. "I'm glad you do, Lanai." She pauses. "You know, I look forward to working with you, even on a project like this."

Lanai forces a smile in return. "Thank you."

The awkwardness of the moment is, thankfully, broken by Lanai knocking over the cup of pens. The various writing utensils go scattering across the floor, leaving Lanai to quickly kneel down and pick them up.

Hands full of pens, cup sitting beside her, empty, Lanai hears a gunshot.

Gunshot.

Glass breaking.

Graciela screaming.

A body hitting the floor, blood pooling from its forehead.

_Silas's_ body.

Silas's _dead_ body.

Lanai screams.

Pens forgotten on the floor, Peacekeepers swarming into the room, Lanai rushes to his side. She grabs his wrist, searching for a pulse. When she finds none, she grabs his neck. She goes so far to put her hand over his heart, but there is no denying it.

Silas is absolutely, unequivocally, dead.

Peacekeepers appear and escort her and Graciela from the room. Graciela orders them to lock down the city and send all available soldiers to search for the gunman. Almost as an afterthought, she tells them to find the tributes and keep them in their apartments.

A doctor suddenly grabs Lanai's arm and takes over to the wall. "Are you alright, Miss Hollister?" the woman asks. "Are you injured?"

Lanai doesn't meet the doctor's eyes, instead staring at the now-closed double oak doors that separates her from the body of her mentor. "No, no, I'm—fine."

She catches sight of a clock on the wall. It's nearly one a.m. Lanai didn't know they had talked for that long.

"What am I going to do?" Lanai says aloud. She isn't prepared to run a Hunger Games on her own. She was supposed to have months before she had to work on next year, if it happened at all, and even then would have had Silas there to fall back on. He was only supposed to be retired, not dead.

"About what?" the doctor asks in surprise.

"About everything," Lanai says, almost defeatedly. She needs Silas's cool head when it comes to making plans. Lanai wants change to quickly; she knows that. She knows that she should not be in the seat planning a full-blown rebellion, yet here she is. The only one left.

Nayra is dead, has been for years. Aristotle defected. Cass and Sabre don't know anyone. Divinity's heart is in the right place, yet is still untrustworthy. Arthur is of no use to them. Macy is content.

And Silas is dead.

Lanai is alone. She has nothing, no one. Absolutely nothing.

"I need to talk to Graciela."

_Macy Barker, 15_

_Victor of the One-Hundredth, Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games_

Being pulled out of bed in the middle of night is never a good thing, but even less so when the Games start in a few hours and Peacekeepers are pounding on your bedroom door.

And so, here Macy is, shuffling behind Larken into the Mentoring room at one a.m., holding one of her signature coffee cups because Panem knows she won't be going back to sleep after this.

As it turns out, she and Larken are the first to show up. The pair tiredly file into their seats, shortly before Will and Hestia arrive, arguing far too loudly for this time of night. Rocket and Thalia are the next to enter, both also toting steaming coffee mugs. They are quickly followed by Koren and Travers, hand-in-hand, and Meadow and Brice, who both look about half-asleep. Rhett appears next, practically holding up Celinda who appears to be midway through drunk and hungover.

Within five minutes, all twenty-three mentors are seated and grumbling unhappily. Macy overhears Arthur tell Chance, "It's too early for this shit." and she would be inclined to agree.

"Don't they know the Games start in a few hours?" groans Meadow. Brice launches into some form of speedy tirade that Macy quickly tunes out of.

"What could possibly be important enough for them to drag us all here at this ungodly hour?" Macy catches Dixie saying.

Lanai Hollister, followed by a pair of Peacekeepers and Graciela Purdue, enter the room and stand in front of the large screen, which still displays the Capitol seal.

"Hello, everyone," Lanai says carefully. "I'm sure you're all wondering why you've been called to this meeting at this time of night." She looks down for a moment. "I regret to inform you all that our Head Gamemaker, Silas Euphemia, has been murdered."

The Victors collectively gasp. Macy and Larken stare at each other. "Surely they can't be planning for the Games to go on?" Macy says in a quiet, shaky voice.

Larken looks back at her with sunken eyes are Lanai speaks again.

"And, despite this development, the Games must go on with myself acting as Head Gamemaker."

"You can't be serious!" Larken yells immediately.

"This is ridiculous!" cries Koren.

"You have to postpone the Games!" Gracyn adds.

Graciela steps in front of Lanai and says, "I know, I know. But unfortunately, we cannot postpone the Games. No tribute is injured, and Miss Hollister can act as the Head Gamemaker perfectly fine. The Games will go on in the morning."

"What do we tell our tributes?" Thalia asks.

"Has a suspect been caught?" Neapolitan says.

"Please, please, one at a time," Graciela says gently. "The tributes cannot know. They cannot know that these Games are anything but normal."

This brings about another wave of outrage.

"What the hell?" Macy says loudly. "What is going to change to the tributes because there is a different Head Gamemaker?"

"We've discussed this, Miss Barker, and decided it is the best course of action," Graciela says impatiently. "Whoever ends up winning will be told that Silas simply died of natural causes sometime during the Games."

"The man was in his thirties!" Kalina suddenly says. "He lived in the most technologically and medically advanced place in Panem! Who in their right mind would believe he died of anything natural?"

Graciela sighs exasperatedly. "Neapolitan, didn't you ask something?"

"Yes," Neapolitan says, sounding rather annoyed. "Have you caught the murderer?"

Graciela and Lanai share a look before the latter answers, "No, no one has been caught. But the Peacekeepers are currently combing the city and—"

"How can you expect us to send our tributes into the arena with a murderer still at large?" Hestia exclaims angrily. "What's to say they won't sabotage the Games?"

"We'll hopefully find them before the Games begin, but if we don't, security will be locked tight," Graciela says, likely in an attempt to assuring.

It certainly does not work for Hestia.

"I don't care about security!" Hestia shouts. "I want my tributes to get the same chance that everyone else gets, and you know how the rebels hate District 2—"

"Sit down, Hestia!" Will commands, seeing embarrassed to be associated with her.

"I'll sit down when I'm ready, Will!" Hestia yells. She and Will go back to arguing about whatever meaningless things they spend their time yelling about, leaving Lanai and Graciela staring at each other.

"Okay, so, moving on," Lanai says. "To recap: don't tell your tributes anything. We need them to think this is a completely normal Games, understood?"

Several of the Victors nod or voice their assent. "Alright," Lanai says, glancing at Graciela. "You are all dismissed, however, make sure your tributes all stay put. We don't know where the murderer is, or who they may attempt to strike next."

A third Peacekeeper suddenly runs into the room. "Madam President," he says. "There has been another attack, likely by the same murderer."

Graciela's eyes widen. "Go, all of you. Stay in your apartments until further notice."

And then she runs from the room, Lanai not far behind.

_?, ?_

_?_

His hands are shaking like mad, making it impossible to take another shot. His ears are ringing from the blast, and his head is spinning, and his vision is blurry and holy fuck he just killed someone—

He drops the gun and runs. They'll be on him any second, the Peacekeepers will, and then the whole operation is over and he'll be dead. He has to get out of here. Away from the mansion. Away from the City Center. Away from everything and everyone, if he could.

But no. He has somewhere he has to be. And they will not be happy with his failure.

The wildly partying Capitolites provide easy cover for him. He fears that he stands out too much, wearing almost all black, a dark vest over the suit he wore to the interviews, but no one spares him a second glance.

He weaves his way through the brightly colored and brightly light partygoers until he ducks into an alleyway. Quickly, he pulls off the vest and stuffs it into a dumpster. As he is about to leave the alley and head in the opposite direction, two men in neon orange suits stop him.

"Hey, dude! You're one of those Gamemakers, aren't you?" the man on the left says. "Oh, man, I've always wanted to meet a Gamemaker!"

"Oh—oh-h, no, no, I'm not a Gamemaker, please—please let me through," he says hurriedly, trying to push his way through the pair of eccentrically-dressed men.

"Why, you got somewhere to be?" the man on the right asks.

"Yes, I'm going home to my wife and my kids," he says, quickly trying to come up with an excuse. "I've had enough partying; I have to go into work tomorrow."

The men finally let him through, and he rushes off down the street.

How is he going to go into work tomorrow? How is he going to look at Silas's seat, Silas's _empty_ seat, and know that he caused that? How he is not going to give himself away?

As he goes, he mentally composes his alibi. He was out partying with some friends. If he has to, he can get those two men to vouch for his story. It's the only way to explain him coming home so late. It's the only thing the Peacekeepers—and his wife—will accept as an answer.

Oh, how he wishes he could go home. His family lives in a nice, large penthouse apartment. His children receive the best Capitol education caps can buy. Oh, what he wouldn't give to be crawling into bed beside his wife right now…

He shakes his head. His job is not yet done. He can't allow thoughts of his family to cloud his mind right now. There is still much to be done. Once he goes to his meeting, he can go home to his wife and make sure his kids are alright. He just hopes his youngest hasn't had any nightmares while he has been gone…

(Unbeknownst to him, a young girl named Cassania is lying awake in her bed, knowing that her daddy isn't at home to comfort her.)

Eventually, the crowds on the streets begin to thin out. He is entering the worst part of the Capitol, which is equivalent to the nicest part of District 1. He passes homes that are only worth a million caps, as opposed to his warm, cozy penthouse which cost him more money than even the wealthiest District citizen will see in their entire life.

At last, he finds the address he is looking for. The house is surprisingly quaint for the Capitol, but it's clear that the residents are poor. He finds himself wondering if they even have both a pool and a hot tub in their backyard. The front door's accent clearly isn't even real gold.

As he slowly makes his way up the walkway, he looks out at the city. There is little he can see, from such a bad angle, but the top floors of the Tribute Center are visible from almost anywhere in the Capitol. Most of the windows are dark. It is, after all, the middle of the night, and the Games do start in the morning. He doesn't exactly know what he expected; all of the tributes would be awake and moving around?

Actually, it seems as if the entire city has gone silent and dark. He certainly hopes there isn't an order that he has missed.

Just as he is about to ring the doorbell, his phone starts to ring. He pulls it out and finds that his wife is calling him. He longs to answer, to assure her that he is alright, that he'll be home soon and he's simply been held up by the crowds, but instead he refuses the call and knocks on the door.

The moment he steps inside, there is a gun pressed against his forehead. He freezes and says, "It's done, Mr.…Renius."

All of the lights are off, making it nearly impossible to make out Ezra through the darkness. But he can tell he is there, holding a gun just inches away from his face, hand on the trigger and bullet in the barrel.

"Please, come in. Let's discuss…this, in the kitchen," Ezra says, removing the gun and taking a few steps away.

He reluctantly follows, nervously looking around at the house. He is amazed that Ezra would settle for something so…quaint, but he supposes that it is unassuming enough that no one would ever notice it.

"Have a seat," Ezra offers, pulling one of the chairs away from the table.

Nervously, he sits, watching as Ezra turns on a lamp and joins him at the table.

"We had an agreement," Ezra says tartly. "You would do as I told, and I wouldn't let out your secrets." He fingers his gun. "You are _this_ close to being found out. You wouldn't want that, would you…?"

"No! Please, don't tell anyone. You have no reason to—I, I did what you told me to," he stammers. If his affairs get out, he won't be able to go home…

"I have only heard about Silas Euphemia," Ezra says curtly.

He swallows thickly. "I—"

Ezra cuts over top of him, holding up a finger and sending him a glare. "My sources tell me that Lanai Hollister is still alive, not even injured in the slightest." He gets to his feet and looks at him. "You had one job to do, and you couldn't even do that. What part of "kill both Euphemia _and_ Hollister" did you not understand?"

"I don't understand why you wanted it to happen the night before the Games begin," he replies, looking down.

Ezra reaches out and lifts up his chin. "Chaos makes transitions easier. And when everyone I have planned comes to fruition, I'm going to need chaos on my side. You ruined it all tonight, you useless coward."

"I still got Euphemia, didn't I?"

"That's hardly good enough. If anything, I would rather you have gotten Hollister and left Euphemia alive."

"Are they not equally dangerous?" he asks nervously, noting that Ezra is still holding the gun, hand over the trigger, bullet in the barrel.

"Of course they aren't, you idiot! Euphemia wants change but was too careful to ever act on it. Hollister—oh-ho-ho, Hollister is a danger to everything I have planned," Ezra says angrily. "She must be eliminated for it all to go smoothly."

"Perhaps if you tell me about your plans I can—"

Ezra whips around and slams the gun against his throat. "You'll what, huh? You'll _help_? Oh, buddy, you've helped plenty tonight."

"P-please, don't kill me," he begs, hands up in surrender.

"I'm not going to _kill you_," Ezra says mockingly. "You're far too useful to my operation for me to do that. No, I think I'll just go for the stomach."

"What?" he says in horror as Ezra moves the gun down and—

He pulls the trigger, sending a bullet ripping into his torso. He cries out in pain, crumpling out of his chair and onto the floor. He curls out the wound, trying to stop the blood flow.

"Please, tell my wife I love her," he says desperately, clutching at the bullet hole in his stomach.

Ezra kicks him lightly. "Oh, Caius, I wouldn't worry about that. When you wake up, you can trust me when I say your wife won't be by your side. After all, she'll be too busy signing the divorce papers."

And then Ezra is gone, leaving him sputtering on the ground.

…


	32. The Plates Will Rise

_Mercury Harrigan, 16_

_District 7 Male_

Something is up.

Mercury can tell. He knows that Macy and Larken were left the apartment last night. He knows that someone that are not his mentors entered as well. It certainly did not make the night any easier. But he wasn't sleeping anyway, so what difference does it make?

His hands shake as he gets dressed. As he puts his arm through his shirt sleeve, he freezes. These could be his last moments here, his last moments alive. In mere hours, just two left, one-hundred, twenty-minutes, he could be dead. No, scratch that—he _will_ be dead.

He will be dead. Mercury Harrigan will be dead.

It didn't used to scare him. In fact, it used to entice him. It was, really, all he wanted.

What changed?

Mercury ponders this as he leaves the bathroom, possibly for the last time, hands still trembling. He finds Macy and Larken seated at the dining table with Eris and their escort. Macy is nursing a steaming mug of coffee and Larken sports of fashionable pair of dark circles beneath his eyes.

Eris looks decidedly worse-for-wear than she did at the interviews. Her hair is carelessly pulled away from her face, and she seems to be playing with her food rather than eating it.

"You should eat something," Larken says. "If you think you can."

Mercury nods stiffly and takes a seat. He swallows thickly and says in a small voice, "What happened…last night?"

Macy and Larken exchange a glance. "…nothing," Macy says slowly.

"I-I heard you leave," Mercury mumbles, trying to work up the courage to say what's on his mind. If these are going to be his last hours in Panem, he has to use words.

There are so many things Mercury wants to say and so little time.

"Oh," Larken says. "I went out last night…visited with some of the other Victors. That's probably what you heard."

"Yes, that must be it," Macy agrees, nodding fervently.

Mercury shoots them an odd look and carefully picks up his fork. He finds himself staring at the food on his plate, unable to even think about eating. He knows he should. There may not be easily accessible in the arena. But he can't make himself put any of it in his mouth.

Instead, he looks up at Macy and says, "…Can I…can I say something?"

"Feel free," Macy answers, looking at him uncertainly.

Mercury takes a long moment to compose himself and glances at the clock. So many words, so little time.

"I used to love words," he says, eyes screwed shut. His voice is the most confident he can ever remember it being. "I used to love words."

He doesn't open his eyes. "I had so many things—things to say. So many things to say."

His eyes tick to the clock again. So many words, so little time.

"I-I lost…lost all of them." He absentmindedly rubs his arm, eyes still shut. "I c-can never get them back."

After a long moment of silence, he opens his eyes and surveys the table. Eris is staring at her plate like it is the most interesting thing in the world, fork empty but poised over her food. Their escort is nervously messing with his fingernail, seemingly trying to avoid looking at Mercury. Macy and Larken are both looking at him, eyes uncertain yet slightly pained.

"I've read about you, Mercury," Larken says carefully. "I've heard about everything that happened to you."

"W-what difference does it make?" Mercury says aloud, his voice returning to its usual quiet tone. "Words or no words, I'm still going to die."

Eris looks up. Their eyes meet from across the table, and her lips part. "You've got a better chance than I do."

Macy and Larken exchange another glance.

"…why do you say that, Eris?" Larken asks, voice uncertain.

Eris shrugs like it should be obvious. "He's older than me. He's probably stronger. I'm sure he isn't afraid of heights in the slightest. He's got a leg up already, but even then, we're still both going to die."

Mercury swallows and adds, "She isn't wrong."

His eyes wander back to the clock. So many words. So little time.

Macy shuts her eyes and says, "It's your lives, anyways."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Eris cries, getting out of her chair.

"It's not my problem nor is it my fault if you die," Macy says matter-of-factly, leaning back in her chair.

Eris balls her hands into fists and says "I—"

"Well, would you look at the time!" Larken says loudly, standing up. "It's time to head up to the hovercraft!"

_So many words. So little time._

Macy and Eris continue to argue as Mercury follows Larken to the elevator. Mercury and Larken end up alone in the lift, while the escort wrangles Macy and Eris into the staircase.

Mercury simply starts talking. He starts talking and he doesn't stop.

Larken fixes him with an odd look, but doesn't say anything. He stands there and seems to listen as the elevator ascends the tower.

Mercury doesn't look down. He doesn't look, at all. He closes his eyes, and he talks. He talks and he doesn't want to stop. He won't stop, not until something he has to say is heard. Anything. He will not silent.

There is so much to say. So many words, and so little time.

_Ottilie Blackwell, 15_

_District 4 Female_

The sound of the hovercraft cuts out most conversation as she walks beside Arthur toward the ladder. It seems like a mighty long walk; the roof is only so big, yet the time she spends tramping across it feels like an eternity. She wants to get into the arena already, to prove who she is and what she is capable of. There is so much to do. So much to wait for.

She just has to be patient. She's waited her whole life for this. Surely she can wait another hour.

They stop below the ladder. Bayou has already gone up, leaving Chance waiting alone for Arthur.

"So, I'll…see you on the other side?" Arthur says, his voice loud yet uncertain.

Ottilie glares at him, but secretly appreciates the sentiment. "I suppose I will too, although I'd rather you sound a bit more confident."

With that, Ottilie grabs onto the ladder, head held high. She watches as Arthur shakes his head and follows Chance inside, and can't keep the thought from her mind:

Will she see them again?

Is there another side waiting for Ottilie, or is the only thing she is headed for beyond the curtain?

She steps into the hovercraft and shakes her head. Of course she will see them again. Nothing could keep her from her ultimate goal: victory. Making history. Ottilie Blackwell becoming a household name. It's all she's ever wanted, and it is what she will be getting.

As she takes her seat, she realizes that only the pairs from 7 and 1 are missing. It makes her unreasonably happy to know she got here before Calista and Shad. It's hardly a place of superiority, but the child in her is pleased nonetheless.

After a few minutes, the pair from 7 appear, quickly followed by Calista and Shad.

The hovercraft sputters into the air, and Ottilie overhears the girls from 11 and 8 talking to each other.

"There's really no going back now," the little girl with the broken arm says shakily.

"No kidding," the girl from 11 agrees. They both appear tense, which is unsurprising for a pair of small children with no experience in combat about to go into the Hunger Games.

"I don't want to die," 8 mumbles.

Ottilie scoffs. She has half a mind to tell the girl that she's twelve, from District 8, currently sports a cast on her arm, and believes in a God of all things. There is no God; Ottilie knows that well. Why, if there was a God, Ottilie's hard work would have been rewarded a hell of a lot more.

And, there is no way that that girl could ever win the Games. For the reasons stated previously, and because that would mean Ottilie fails. Which she is smart enough to know will not happen.

"I know," answers 11, leaning back against her chair.

The hovercraft shudders slightly, and the girl from 8 grips the arm of her chair with her free hand.

Ottilie rolls her eyes and looks away from them. Pathetic, they all are. None of them stand a chance against her. Hell, they don't stand a chance against half of her allies. Bayou is questionable, and Shad is just outright overconfident.

Overconfidence kills. Ottilie is well aware.

The hovercraft ride takes no longer than twenty minutes, but it feels like several geological ages have passed by the time they touch down. Ottilie is antsy. She is ready to get into the arena and spill some blood.

It's not the thought of killing that excites her; the contrary, in fact. Killing sounds gross, but it is necessary. No, what really excites her is the thought of victory. A kill is a victory. If she gets a kill, she triumphed over someone, and can prove herself from there on out.

The tributes file out of the hovercraft, where they are greeted by their stylists.

Bayou walks off with his, but Ottilie's is noticeably absent. Instead, a perfectly put-together woman approaches her and extends a hand. "Ottilie, yes? I'm Sidra. I'll be escorting you to your launch pad today."

Ottilie wrinkles her nose but shakes Sidra's hand. "Where is my stylist?" she asks snidely as they start down the long, bleak hallway.

"Aurelie is fine," Sidra assures her. "I simply asked her to step out this morning so we could talk."

"…about what?" Ottilie suspiciously.

"Well, Ottilie, we have a problem," Sidra answers. "Navarro Lune is a rebel operative in disguise. We need him taken out—discreetly. We would blow him sky-high if we didn't already have a rebel issue in the Districts."

Ottilie stares at her, wide-eyed. "Navarro? The one from 8 who stabbed the trainers?"

Sidra blinks for a few seconds. "Yes, that one. We need him taken out."

"He's a rebel?"

"Yes, I said that already," Sidra says impatiently. She stops in front of a door marked with large, orange _4_. "Here, let's finish this discussion inside."

Ottilie follows Sidra into the launch room. She shuts the door, and when she turns around, is greeted by the strangest outfit she's ever seen.

The shirt is light purple, short-sleeved and wide-necked. In the center is a design of a white and gold castle, covered by the words "I conquered It's A Small World!" in a loopy font. Beneath that is a pair of short denim shorts and pair of dark red tennis shoes. They look good for running in, but not great for anything else.

And then the strangest item of all is a headband with two large circles on it. It is a combination of light purple and dark red, Ottilie's favorite colors, and has a few layers of lace wrapped around the circles. Ottilie looks at it with disgust. "You're kidding, right?"

"I didn't design it," Sidra says defensively. "Well, get dressed."

Ottilie dejectedly puts on the shirt. "So…I'm supposed to kill Navarro, who is a rebel in disguise, that's what you're saying?"

"…yes," Sidra says slowly, as if uncertain of what she is saying. "We'd appreciate it if you could do it in the Bloodbath."

Ottilie smiles lopsidedly as she pulls on the shorts. Wherever she is going, she guesses it must be warm. "This is important, yeah?"

"Very."

She kneels down to tie her shoes. "And I'm the only one who has been trusted with this mission?"

"This particular mission? Yes."

"So, what you're saying is…I'm trustworthy? And an important asset?" Ottilie stands up, trying to delay putting on the headband.

"I suppose so, yes."

"Whose order is this?" Ottilie asks, her voice getting progressively higher as the excitement takes control.

"My boss—the Vice President, and of course his aunt, Graciela."

Ottilie nearly jumps for joy. "And you trust that I can get it done?"

"We wouldn't ask you if we didn't. Now put on the headband."

_Geo Stryker, 15_

_District 12 Male_

"Did you design this?" Geo asks, looking down at himself.

His stylist, Katianna, scoffs. "Honey, I wouldn't be caught dead beside that thing." She gestures to his headband, which is the same shade of blue as his shirt. There is some sort of cartoon character on one of the circles, sporting green-and-white armor and a clear helmet. The other circle has a cartoony-version of space with the words "To Infinity, and Beyond!" written in large, white letters.

The rest of the outfit is no better. The shirt is decorated with a line of smartly-dressed ghosts, all hovering above the words "The Haunted Mansion". He has on a pair of jeans with several rips in them and a pair of all-black tennis shoes. It's no outfit he's ever worn before, or barely even seen. Only the wealthiest kids in District 12 wore jeans, and they certainly didn't come ripped.

"It's…not what I would expect to go into the Games in," Geo says, glad to know that Katianna hates it as much as he does.

"That headband makes it look like you have ears," laughs Katianna. She hands him a small mirror, in which he notes that it does, in fact, look like he has ears.

"Huh," he says quietly. "Weird."

Silence envelopes the room. Geo nervously sits down on the couch, wringing his hands. Only a few moments after he sits down, he stands up. He takes to pacing the length of the room but returns to the couch a few minutes later.

"Geo, honey," Katianna says. "Decide whether you want to sit or stand, please. All of this movement is making me nervous."

Geo takes a deep breath and says. "I just can't sit still."

"That's fine, honey, just stop sitting down so much."

He nods resolutely and tries to lean against the wall. All of his movement was bothering Katianna, so he may as well stop. He doesn't want possibly her last memory of him to be an annoyed one.

"I didn't mean stop moving completely," Katianna says with a laugh. "Although it's very hard to take you seriously with that silly little headband on."

Geo almost tells her that she's currently wearing a bright orange tunic, which clashes very badly with her puke-green hair and makeup, but he keeps his mouth shut and simply nods.

Any minute now, he will have to step into the tube. He will step onto the launchpad, and the glass will close around him, and there will be no going back. He will enter the arena, and he may very well die.

Just to think, that in ten minutes, he could be dead. Just to think that…well, it makes his brain feel like a smoothie and his head pound. To simply stand here and think…to think that in ten minutes, there could be no more Geo Stryker. He would be gone. Nothing, not even a consciousness trapped in a body. Nothing more than a corpse, unceremoniously draped across the ground of whatever Panem-forsaken arena he is about to enter.

He wonders if there will be blood, when he dies. He wonders if he will see any of it.

It's not like he hasn't seen his own blood before. He's gotten scrapes and grazes before. Hell, he once cut himself on a rusty nail and everyone thought he would die of Tetanus. He is no stranger to blood, especially not his own.

Despite this, despite all of his blood that he has seen, he does not want to see anymore. You do not bleed in the Hunger Games and survive. Once your blood is spilt, you are as good as dead—at least, that's what Geo's seen. He never paid the Games much attention before. They were a bloody, bloody sport, and Geo has no interest in watching other people die.

Well, he has no interest in watching himself die, but that's not the point.

"I'm…scared," Geo says quietly, so quiet that Katianna nearly misses it. He braces himself for her answer, afraid that she will be mad or anguished or unhappy or sad or anything other than what he hopes she is.

"I know," she simply says. "Only a fool wouldn't be."

It is, really, all Geo could have asked for. It isn't grating, it isn't judgmental, it isn't anything but careful and supportive.

And she certainly isn't wrong. Anyone with more than a potato in their head knows that the Games are something to be feared, not celebrated.

"Thank you," Geo says, his voice quiet but genuine. "I…appreciate it."

"I mean it, Geo," Katianna says, one hand absently messing with her curls of vomit. "Don't be a fool."

"Five minutes until launch," says the pleasant voice in the ceiling.

Geo sucks in a breath and holds it. "I'll try."

He takes a cautious step toward the tube. It looks so innocent, almost innocuous. He wishes, as he sizes it up, that he didn't know where it was going to take him. Maybe it would be easier to just take the step, enter the tube, if he didn't know it would lock him in a death match.

Another long breath comes through his lungs. He holds it for a moment before letting it go. Five minutes. Five minutes, and he could be dead.

He takes another breath.

In five minutes, he could be stabbed in the chest, have his head cut off, have his innards be spilt across the ground. Only five minutes. Five minutes left that he can breathe as a free man. Five minutes left that he can simply stand here, and not fear for his life every second.

It does not feel like long enough.

It is not long enough; Geo can tell already. It will never be long enough.

"Four minutes until launch," the pleasant voice says, acting as a countdown for the clock that hangs over Geo's head.

Four minutes.

It is not long enough.

No amount of time could ever be long enough.

"Good luck, Geo," Katianna says. "I hope to we meet again, whether in life or death."

Geo nods once, without turning his head away from the tube.

"Three minutes until launch."

At last, he takes the last step. He pulls himself into the tube, feeling as if he is pushing through molasses. He turns back to Katianna as the voice announces two minutes. Two minutes left.

Geo takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He refuses to open them until his plate starts to rise.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "for everything."

"Of course," Katianna says, sounding almost perplexed. "It is my job, after all."

Geo can't find it in himself to answer.

_Lana Meadows, 14_

_District 3 Female_

"Three minutes until launch."

A strangled sort of laugh chokes its way out of Lana's throat. It sounds like a laugh, and her face contorts like it's a laugh, but there is nothing humorous about the situation.

Here Lana stands, wearing a mustard-yellow sweater and a pair of ears. _Ears_. She's going to die wearing _ears_.

The ears themselves don't look terrible or anything: being completely white and shiny isn't so bad. But it doesn't really compliment the rest of the outfit: the aforementioned mustard-yellow sweater is decorated with the white outline of a castle and the word "Disneyland" in an almost difficult to read font. The rest of her outfit is simple; white, nearly pocket-less denim shorts and canary-yellow tennis shoes.

It's not necessarily a bad outfit to die in. But there could be better.

"I'm not ready."

"You have to be," says her stylist, Wulfric. His voice is high, even higher than Lana's, which makes it rather hard to take him seriously. "Only five minutes, after all!"

He is far too cheery for Lana's liking, but she affords him a forced smile nonetheless. As she nervously turns to look at the tube, the smile drops from her face, leaving her looking grim and almost solemn.

The tube sits in the back corner of the room, in a little alcove of its own. The walls around it shroud it in shadows, giving it a look of foreboding it wouldn't have otherwise had.

Lana takes a step toward it. She keeps her head held high as she looks at it, knowing that once she steps inside, she will be trapped. The glass will close around her, and that will be that. No going back. The plate beneath her feet will rise, and suddenly she will be in an arena and fighting for her life.

It doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel real, and she's not sure if it ever will.

Even when there is a knife in her stomach and she lays on the ground, surrounded by her own vermillion puddles, will it feel real? Or will it be like a dream, simply drifting through it and waiting to wake up?

It is not a dream.

Lana knows that. This is real, and she knows—she simply isn't prepared to accept it.

"Two minutes until launch."

She reaches out and touches the tube. The glass is cold.

"I'm not ready," she repeats, shoving her hands into the pocket of her sweater. If there is one silver lining to all of this, it's just how comfortable her sweater is. The inside is lined with fleece, as is the pocket. It happens to be her favorite color as well, but it certainly is not good camouflage.

She hears the sound of Wulfric shifting his position. "You'll be fine," he says, sounding almost annoyed with her.

"You see how you like it," Lana says in a low voice. "to know that in less than five minutes, you could be dead."

"Hmph," Wulfric answers. "I sure hope you win. That way I can get promoted to a better District."

"That's despicable."

"What? Hoping my charge wins?"

"There is one minute until launch. At this time, please step into the tube."

It says please. As if Lana has a choice. As if she could say, "No, not today" and that would be that. She wonders if the voice will thank her as well—maybe they'll send her family a card when she dies. Just to be polite.

Lana snorts. After a moment, she takes a deep breath and steps into the tube. For a long moment, nothing happens. She stands there, staring at Wulfric, wondering if, perhaps, this is the last moment their eyes will meet.

The glass suddenly seals around her and she sucks in a breath in surprise. She only lets it go when the plate begins to rise, leaving her less and less light. She bends over, trying to keep Wulfric in her sight for as long as she can, until she is quite literally kneeling and her head is touching the ground.

She is plunged into darkness, leading to her rocketing to her feet in fear.

_These are the last moments_, she thinks, almost shaking with fear. _The last moments._

The tube bursts into the arena, blinding her with momentary sunlight. She quickly begins to look around, trying to take everything in and find a place to hide, and is met with, possibly, the strangest place she has ever seen.

Directly in front of her stands an enormous castle, not unlike the one on her shirt. Before that is the golden Cornucopia, shining in the early morning sun. To the right stands a mountain, tall enough to have—snow, on top? It's far too hot for snow, Lana notes, but not hot enough to be an issue.

On the other side of the castle, she can see two gateways, one marked with _Adventureland_ and the other _Frontierland_. Directly to her right are large, gray rocks all pointing to a sign that she can't make out. She peers over her shoulder for a moment and sees, oddly enough, a quaint row of shops leading to a square.

"Forty-nine!"

She locates Ashe, standing three plates away from her in dark green shirt and shorteralls. In front of the entrance to Frontierland stands Ainsley, and near the mountain and castle she sees Eris and Lyndie, luckily standing close to each other.

After a moment, she gains Ashe's attention and gestures slightly towards the rocks. Ashe nods, and Lana can only hope she got the message.

"Thirty-two!"

She takes a deep breath and tries to keep her head. Spilling for the Cornucopia, she can see weapons and backpacks of all kinds. They need those. They need weapons, and they need supplies.

She will just have to risk it.

"Twenty-six!"

Eris and Lyndie seem to be communicating somehow. Lana watches them, hoping they notice her, but they never do. Her eyes stick to them for a few moments. Her little allies. Both of whom could be dead in a minute.

"Nineteen!"

After quick consideration, Lana decides to go after a pair of dark red backpacks leaning against each other. There has to be something sharp in there, right?

"Thirteen!"

The seconds tick past. Lana listens to them carefully as she leans forward, trying to take a running stance. She has to get there first, has to get to those bags before anyone else can. She can regroup with her allies—_those that survive_—once she secures supplies.

(And doesn't die.)

"Eight!"

Another deep breath. She looks to her left and finds that Quinn Bayers is beside her. To her right stands Liesel Leenheer, who is looking at the girl from 6 with utter contempt.

"Three!"

_Stay focused, stay focused_, Lana thinks, trying to stop herself from wondering what's wrong with Liesel.

"Two…!"

Everything will be fine. All she has to do is survive the Hunger Games.

**A/N: And there we go. The Pre-Games over and done with, and now the fun part begins. **

**1\. Will Mercury survive the Bloodbath?**

**2\. Will Ottilie's mission impede her chance at victory?**

**3\. Does Geo stand any chance?**

**4\. Will all of Lana's allies make it out of the Bloodbath alive?**

**Random Question: what are all of tributes' shirts based off of?**

**My answer: well, they're real shirts that they sell at Disneyland. Or, well, technically on the Disney website, but same difference.**

**ALLIANCES:**

_**We're Still Extremely Volatile This Year: **_**Shad (D1M), Calista (D1F), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M), Ottilie (D4F)**

_**Flower Power: **_**Lana (D3F), Eris (D7F), Lyndie (D8F), Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)**

_**Sad Lesbians: **_**Jayce (D6F), Ishtar (D12F)**

_**Disaster Lesbians: **_**Liesel (D5F), Tam (D10F)**

_**5'6 Gang: **_**Darwin (D3M), Sterne (D5M), Mercury (D7M)**

_**For Peace of Mind: **_**Everett (D9M), Geo (D12M)**

**-Amanda**


	33. And the Cannons Will Fire

_Lyndie Franklin, 12_

_District 8 Female_

_Tick, tock_.

The clock is back, hanging over her head, a never-ending pendulum that counts down the seconds she has left to live. The sound of it threatens to drive her insane, just going around and around and around. There is only so much time in every day, and there is only so much time in Lyndie's life. The clock reminds her of it. Every second ticks by, a reminder. A reminder of what she has to lose.

Her eyes zero in on a pair of dark red bags, one on top of the other.

"One!"

_Tick, tock._

Lyndie springs off of her pedestal as the announcer yells, "Ladies and gentlemen, let the One-Hundredth, Fifty-Third Annual Hunger Games, begin!" Her feet smack against the stone pathway beneath her dark green shoes. She looks around wildly, catching sight of Larch from 6 taking a knife to the throat of Mercury from 7. She pauses for a moment, transfixed, as Larch stabs Mercury in the chest and leaves him to die.

Maybe he's already dead.

Like she could be. Any second now.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock._

Everything seems to play in slow motion; three of the Careers converge upon Larch, holding multicolored, light up sticks. Ainsley grabs Eris and makes a break for Tomorrowland. Everett and Geo run off into Frontierland, toting a pair of backpacks and a sword. Darwin fights with Navarro, ultimately culminating in blood being splattered, but Lyndie doesn't see who is belongs to. Her eyes remain trained on the blood puddle. A small pool of red that finds its way into the cracks in the cobblestone. It spreads, trickling closer and closer to Lyndie's frozen feet.

"Lyndie!" Lana suddenly yells, holding onto the two backpacks Lyndie was going for. "What are you doing? Go, come on!"

The world snaps back to speed. Lyndie looks around wildly, trying to gain her bearings.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick tock._

The clock pounds above her head, screaming louder and louder as each second goes by.

Suddenly Lana is beside her, handing her one of the backpacks and telling her to run. "Lana!" Lyndie yells, as Lana runs off to Ashe, leaving her standing there alone. "W-wait!"

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock._

Lyndie balls her free hand into a fist. She steps forward and picks up a discarded knife and runs after Lana.

She is not ready to die. But if she does, it will be on her own terms, and she only hopes she doesn't go to hell for this. "Lana!" she shouts, looking side-to-side, trying to keep an eye on her surroundings. They think the twelve-year-old with the broken arm can't do anything.

She'll show them.

_Tick. Tock._

Halfway past the Cornucopia, she is suddenly bowled into and knocked onto the ground. Her knife skids a few feet away, just out of reach. She desperately attempts to grab at it, but her hand falls short.

_Tick._

Navarro Lune sits on top of her, blood spattered across his face and a crazy look in his eyes. He has lost his headband somewhere in the fracas, but the cutesy princess in pink on his shirt remains there. Somehow, the shirt only makes the situation worse.

"LANA!" Lyndie shouts, still trying to reach her knife. "ASHE!"

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock._

The clock beats faster as Lyndie squirms beneath Navarro, trembling in terror.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock_.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Lana and Ashe sprinting desperately toward her, both carrying a weapon of some kind.

Her hand closes around the knife, and she brings it up to Navarro's back, frantically trying to make her wrist bend in a way it doesn't bend.

Everything is going to be okay. If only she can get this knife into Navarro's back, everything will be okay. If only Lana and Ashe save her if she can't save herself, everything will be okay.

She's going to be okay. Surely she will.

_Tick, tock._

Navarro leans upwards, and for a second, Lyndie thinks he is going to leave. Instead, he whips around and pulls the knife from her hand, leaving her weaponless and stranded.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock._

"I already got the boy from 3, what's one more?" Navarro taunts, holding her knife over Lyndie's forehead. His other one, which is now pressed against Lyndie's free arm, is coated with red. The cold of the blade and warmth of the blood makes Lyndie gag.

"Please," Lyndie says, desperately trying to stall. "Please, don't kill me."

"That's cute." Navarro starts to press the blade into her forehead. Lyndie writhes, hoping that if she moves enough, she can knock him off. A bead of blood trickles down her forehead and into her eye.

Lyndie screams.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock._

Ashe suddenly appears, shoving Navarro off of her and sending his knife flying. It drops like a rock and—

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick—_

_Liesel Leenheer, 17_

_District 5 Female_

Liesel doesn't know what's wrong with her, but after last night, after the interviews, after everything Sterne said, she can't stand the sight of Jayce and Ishtar. The very notion of their existence makes her blood boil. Jayce and Ishtar—well, hell, they've lived. Jayce has moved Districts, for fuck's sake! She's seen so much, loved so many, and what has Liesel done? Fuck a girl, get bitter when she gets cheated on, and then spend the rest of her meaningless existence being petty?

What kind of a life has Liesel even _lived_?

But Jayce and Ishtar; Jayce and Ishtar make her want to scream and rip out of her hair. They're just so _perfect_. They pull at the Capitol's heartstrings just as they should. Hell, the whole thing could be fabricated, and Liesel would never know?

What a perfect soap opera their lives are. Oh, boohoo, poor, neglected Ishtar was in love with kind and smart Jayce. But Jayce had to go away, and they agreed to go full-on Romeo and Juliet and kill themselves for love.

Liesel can't imagine being so blind.

"One!" shouts the announcer.

Liesel snaps back to reality and looks around. She has to find Tam; she knows that much. She can't ditch the girl she's supposed to be in love with.

She springs off of her platform moments too late, having located Tam on the other side of the Cornucopia. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots three of the Careers mercilessly beating Larch with brightly colored sticks that are emitting bubbles.

As she passes the mouth of the Cornucopia, carefully dodging a fight between the little kids from 8, she spontaneously grabs a katana. Even if she and Tam have nothing else to sustain themselves with, they can at least defend each other.

Tam is running toward the row of shops. Liesel calls out to her and starts to follow her, but as she passes the pedestals, something suddenly rams into her.

No, not something.

Someone.

Jayce Dotter, to be specific.

Katana held firmly in hand, Liesel scrambles to her feet and yells, "What the fuck?"

Jayce backs away, holding a bag close to her chest. She doesn't say anything, but Liesel certainly doesn't want her to.

This moment, this moment that Liesel remains here, in a standoff with the person she currently hates most, something snaps inside of her. She hasn't lived enough. She hasn't lived enough to die.

But Jayce has.

Jayce has seen shit, done shit, one of which being Ishtar. She done _plenty._

Liesel lifts the katana, and Jayce makes a break for it. She takes off running in the opposite direction, toward Tomorrowland, but Liesel will make sure that she doesn't get far.

In a desperate attempt to stop her, Liesel lobs the katana through the arm like a javelin. It makes a surprisingly nice arc before hitting its mark with perfection—

It slams into Jayce's retreating back with enough force to knock her down. Or maybe it was the shock of the impact, or maybe it cut her spine in half. Liesel doesn't know and she certainly doesn't care.

Jayce screams and screams and screams as Liesel jogs up to her. She yanks the katana out of Jayce's back, eliciting a particularly brutal scream from the girl, before she leans down to her level and says, "Maybe next time, you'll think twice about falling love. I know I do."

"Ishtar!" Jayce cries, her voice horribly broken and frayed. "Ishtar!"

"Sorry, hun, your ex isn't coming to save you," Liesel says as she starts to leave. "My sure didn't."

And she jogs away, noting that Tam disappeared into one of the shops and tries to figure out which one.

It doesn't occur to her, as she quickly ducks into an ice cream parlor and finds Tam hidden amongst piles of stuffed animals, that she just killed someone. It doesn't occur to her until Tam asks her where the blood came from.

"I killed the girl from 6," Liesel says stoically. She wonders if someone else would have an adverse reaction to this. Maybe she would have, before. When she was a rich District 5 girl, could she have killed someone? Could she have done what she did to Jayce, and thrown the katana without second thought?

Maybe she could. Maybe she couldn't. But whatever that Liesel could or couldn't have done is of no issue. Liesel is here, in the Games, and is kill or be killed.

She's ready to accept that. She's ready to fight, to stop dwelling on her past life, and worrying about what Noor thinks.

Noor isn't here. But Liesel is. And so is Tam. They are far more important than who Noor did or did not sleep with.

"I didn't know you had it in you," Tam says in a quiet voice. Her normal gruff undertone isn't there. "I…"

"You what?" Liesel asks uncertainly.

"She didn't suffer, did she?"

Liesel sees Jayce's bloodied back, with her possibly snapped spine, and the girl herself lying face down on the ground, screaming in absolute agony and begging the girl she may or may not love to save her. It imprints itself on Liesel's vision for several moments she says slowly, "No, I don't think she did."

"It was quick?"

"…yes, it was quick."

"That's a relief," Tam says, smiling slightly. "It's not right, you know? Killing people. But it is what it is."

"Yeah," Liesel says, running a hand through her hair. "Shit! I lost my headband."

Tam takes off hers. "You can have mine. I certainly don't want it."

Liesel accepts it and puts it on her head. Both circles are light gray, one of which is features a golden man with a strange looking face and the other having a small, trash-can like creature on it. "It's great."

"I didn't design it," Tam says. She gets to her feet. "We should keep moving. We need to get a…what, layout of the land or somethin'?"

Liesel forces out a laugh and says, "Yeah. We should."

This day is not sitting right with Liesel, but it almost surprises her that it bothers her as little as it does. She killed someone. She ended a life, and it feels like nothing has changed.

_Ashe Illyrian, 14_

_District 11 Female_

It was barely a moment.

Barely a moment, from when the knife fell from Navarro's hand to when it slammed into Lyndie's forehead.

There really wasn't any blood, at least, not that Ashe had seen. It was just…death. A shell—a human who once was there and now is gone.

Ashe knows that Lyndie believed there was a place after death. Somewhere safe, somewhere almost like…paradise.

As she grabs Navarro by the shoulders and slams him against the Cornucopia, she hopes that is where Lyndie is. And she hopes Lyndie will forgive her for what she does.

Anger and adrenaline are pounding through her veins as Navarro's head ricochets forward, hitting his chest and bouncing backwards into the hard metal of the Cornucopia. Droplets of blood fly onto Ashe's face and hands, but she hardly notices.

There is blood splattered against the Cornucopia when Ashe makes the second slam, and with an audible crack, something in Navarro's head breaks.

His eyes go dark and Ashe drops him like he has a deadly, contagious disease. She turns to Lana, trying to ignore the warmth of blood on her skin. "Let's…go."

Lana gapes at her for a moment, before her eyes dart toward Lyndie's body. The blade of the knife that stick up straight from her forehead glints in the morning sun.

Together, the pair run off in the direction of the spinning golden spire and sign that reads _Tomorrowland_.

Ashe looks over her shoulder more than once as the Cornucopia gets smaller and smaller. She isn't sure exactly what she's looking for; to make they aren't being followed by a Career, or perhaps something worse?

They find Eris and Ainsley behind the circular hub in the middle of Tomorrowland. No words are exchanged between the four when Ashe and Lana arrive, but Ashe can see it in their eyes.

They know. They know Lyndie will not be joining them.

"Well," Ainsley says, hands on her hips, continually glancing around. Her voice carries a tiny tremor, as if their situation is just now sitting upon her shoulders. "We'd better find somewhere to set up camp."

"Where?" Eris asks. "This place is so open that there's nowhere to hide."

Ashe looks around. "Let's go up these stairs."

Eris freezes. "Won't that just put us in plain view of the other tributes?"

"I think I see what Ashe means, Eris," Lana says gently. "Those tracks lead into the trees, see? Above the pond."

Ashe follows Lana's finger. The tracks that split off from the second level of the hub curve over their heads and to the right, beside the snowy mountain and the lagoon. Ashe cranes her neck and notices two strange things about these locations:

One. Sleds rocket around the mountain on some sort of path, but there doesn't appear to be anyone inside.

Two. Bright yellow submarines sit in the lagoon, making loops around the water and occasionally disappearing into a cave.

It is a strange sight. "What kind of place is this?" Ashe wonders aloud. There is so much to take in, so much to process: everywhere you look, there is something new and different. A highway of some sort, filled with tiny, two-person cars. An enormous, four-level coliseum of sorts. A triangular, white dome.

There may not be much cover, but there is so much to see.

"I don't know," Lana says quietly, eyes wide as she surveys the area. "Maybe we can figure it out once we get on those tracks." She points to the tracks that hang over their heads.

The four girls climb over the chain that hangs in front of the staircase and start up to the second level.

"You guys don't think that chain was there for a reason, do you?" Eris asks nervously. "Like, I don't know, maybe to keep us out?"

"It's going to be fine," Ainsley says impatiently. She takes the bold first step onto the tracks and opens her arms. "See, Eris? I'm fine."

Ashe glances around the terminal as she follows Ainsley. The floor is made of a rubbery substance. It is nothing Ashe has ever seen before.

"I bet the floor used to move in here," Lana says.

Ashe raises her eyebrows.

"It looks like a conveyor belt," says Lana, looking at Ashe oddly. "…have you never seen a conveyor belt before?"

"Can't say I have." Ashe looks back toward the terminal, wondering what it feels like to stand on moving ground like that. She supposes it is just another thing she will never experience. With a shake to her head, she falls back to talk to Eris. "Hey, are you okay?"

Eris shoots her glare. "Of course I'm not okay! We're in the fucking Hunger Games!"

"Yes," Ashe says. Certainly she knows that better than any of them. "But something else is bothering you."

"Haven't you figured it out already, or do you just have a terrible memory?"

"I—oh."

"Yeah." Eris slows her speed as they approach the trees. The lagoon stands directly below them. For a moment, neither of them moving. Instead, they stand there and watch the submarines go by. "What happened to your hands?"

"Nothing?" Ashe says confusedly. She raises her hands to look at them and realizes that Eris is referring to the blood on them. "Oh. I, uh, I avenged Lyndie."

Eris freezes. "You killed someone?"

Now that the adrenaline in sapped from her veins, and the reality of what she has done is now setting in, the question sounds a hell of a lot worse. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"…who was it?" Eris asks nervously as they enter the cover of the trees.

"Lyndie's District partner."

"Ohhhh," Eris says. "That's fine, then."

Ashe stares at her. "W-what?"

"I said that that's fine. Navarro was an all-around terrible person," Eris says, shrugging. "I mean, if you'd taken out, like, Sterne, or something, I might have been inclined to be horrified."

"I don't understand," Ashe says. "I still took a life. It doesn't matter who Navarro was; I still killed him, didn't I?"

"You did everyone here a favor, Ashe," Eris says, leveling her eyes with Ashe's. "Navarro would have gone on a killing spree and taken out half of the arena, including some of us. You can't be blamed for it." Eris shrugs again. "Besides, it's the Hunger Games. What are you gonna do?"

Ashe slows her steps and allows Eris to walk in front of her. In the cover of the overgrown trees, some of which are wrapped around the tracks like rope, Ashe realizes something.

It will always be her or someone else. And Navarro was that someone else.

_Sterne Colvin, 14_

_District 5 Male_

The moment he saw Navarro's knife enter Darwin's stomach, he knew it was all over.

He had already seen Mercury fall with a slit throat and stab wound, courtesy of Larch from District 6. He can't lose Darwin too; he can't be alone in here. He'll never survive if he's on his own.

And now here he is, following a stumbling, bleeding, dying Darwin Abner through fantastical paths around a carnival of sorts.

He doubts it is the place Darwin imagined he would die in. It certainly isn't the place he imagined he would watch someone die in. Maybe a forest, or a tundra or a desert or something. But a magical carnival? Didn't even place on the list.

"Darwin!" Sterne calls, holding nothing but a small backpack. "Darwin, w-wait!"

Darwin drops to his knees in front of a dozen flying, plastic elephants. As Sterne approaches, he recognizes what a strange scene it is: a fifteen-year-old boy, wearing a bright yellow shirt with the word _Disneyland_ on the back, nursing a grievous stab wound on the ground in front of spinning plastic elephants.

Sterne stops just a few feet short of Darwin and glances over his shoulder. He can hear talking. Someone is talking, but there's no one but him and Darwin here…

"I'm sorry for picking so many fights, I-I was just trying to do what was right, but maybe I was wrong to and maybe I should have to just sat down and shut up and maybe I should have just behaved myself and maybe then I wouldn't be here and…"

"Darwin?" Sterne says, walking around to Darwin's front. Darwin's mouth is moving, and a seemingly-endless stream of words is pouring forth. Apologies. Insults. Confessions.

The wound is worse when it's full view: the entire left side of his shirt is soaked with crimson. The wound itself is just a gaping hole in Darwin's skin. Somewhere along the path, the knife must have fallen out, or maybe Navarro took it with him. Blood is still trickling from the shredded pocket of skin.

Sterne leans down and tries to put pressure on it.

"Acer, I-I can't believe you would ever say something like that to Nikola…she's just a kid, with no parents and I hope you learn that violence isn't always…always the answer. But black eyes can heal and sometimes words can't and maybe I should have just taken Mr. Ott's advice and kept my tongue in check…maybe I wouldn't be here if I had…"

"Darwin!" Sterne repeats. Blood is still trickling from his wound, but it isn't on his shirt anymore. Instead, it's on Sterne's hands, fighting its way into the cracks and the creases in his skin. "Darwin, please stay me."

"Sterne," Darwin says, his voice slurred. "I don' wanna die, and neither do you, but maybe once I'm gone, you'll have an actual shot at this. And if you don't, maybe that will be my fault. I'm sorry…sorry about everything, Sterne, I'm sorry I have to leave you alone because I already say Mercury die but I know enough about wounds to know this one is fatal and I'm sorry…"

"What the hell you do have to be sorry about?" Sterne cries, trying to fight the hysterical edge out of his voice. He can't lose Darwin! He'll be dead in ten minutes! There's strength in numbers even if none of them know how to fight!

"Stay with me, damnit!" Sterne yells, pressing his hands harder against Darwin's side.

A strange sort of laugh breaks Darwin's steady stream of words. "It doesn't even hurt, Sterne…I'm so dead, I may as well not even have any blood left! But I don't wanna die…I don't wanna die…" Darwin leans back against the ground. "Are you listen', Sterne? I don't wanna die without being heard…"

Darwin's eyes drop close, and suddenly his words stop coming. "Darwin?" Sterne says, eyes wide with terror. "Darwin?! Darwin, wake up!"

He shakes Darwin desperately, trying to fight off the tears that prick at his eyes. "Darwin, please, come back! I can't do this without allies! I need you! Please!"

He waits. He waits for Darwin to open his eyes and keep talking.

But he doesn't.

Sterne sits there for a long moment before he gets to his feet. Looking down on Darwin's bloody corpse, he says, "I listened, Darwin. I heard you."

And he walks away, leaving Darwin's corpse to be picked up by the hovercraft.

As he passes the carousel, he suddenly hears someone yell, "Look! It's the boy from 5!"

Sterne looks over his shoulder and sees all five Careers standing by a building marked with a sign that reads _Mr. Toad's Wild Ride_.

He doesn't think; he just runs. He sprints, as fast as he physically can, adrenaline pouring into his veins like wildfire.

The Careers follow him around a bend, past a strange, tan mountain and into some sort of town square. He glances over his shoulder and sees the group not far behind him. He tries to take a deep breath and sees some kind of floating platform by the docks.

Sterne runs toward it, hoping beyond hope that it will start moving and will take him to the island across the river.

Almost as soon as he gets on the platform and closes the netted gate, it pushes off from the dock, seemingly open its own volition.

The Careers stop on the docks, and for a moment, Sterne thinks he's won. And then Calista yells something, and Ottilie and Bayou leap into the water and start to swim.

_Oh. Fuck_, Sterne thinks as he runs to the other end of the platform.

Ottilie reaches it first, and she claws her way onto the boat, bearing small sword and a dagger. They're nearly to the island now, the docks are mere feet away.

Sterne takes a chance and leaps from the platform. He leads poorly on the docks, but once he regains his footing, he takes off running again. Adrenaline is the only thing keeping him going, he can tell. He feels winded, but his need to live overtakes his need for a break.

Ottilie and Bayou are slower than they were before, likely the fault of their soaked denim shorts. The only one of the three still wearing their ears is Sterne, which makes him feel silly despite his bad situation.

Despite all of this, the pair from 4 are gaining on him. They're both clearly in better shape than Sterne, and have a leg up on almost every aspect.

The path is uneven beneath his feet, and he fears that he may trip over a root or rock. If he trips, it is all over. He can kiss his life goodbye.

Suddenly a knife slices through the air above his shoulder, narrowly missing cutting into his skin. Sterne takes a deep breath and looks around. There has to be something around here that he can use to lose them.

At last, he sees a boat. An extravagant boat, seeming far too nice for such a desperate situation. It lazily floats through the river, and Sterne sees his chance.

He steps up beside some sort of water mill and claws his way to the roof. Ottilie is quick to follow, leaving Bayou alone on the ground, as if he is waiting for Sterne to fall.

Sterne clambers to the end highest end of the small tin roof. The boat will pass by in just a few seconds and he can—

Another knife imbeds itself in the tree behind Sterne's head. He looks at Ottilie, now poised at the other end of the roof. She dives toward him, hands outstretched, and he jumps.

He imagines the jump in slow motion: Ottilie's hands grab desperately for his feet as he flails through the air, arms frantically trying to catch onto the deck of the boat. Ottilie's hand closes around one of his feet, but only manages to pull off his shoe.

Sterne slams onto the top deck of the boat with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

"NO!" Ottilie shouts disbelievingly as the boy leisurely passes by her. She jumps off of the roof of the water mill, but the only thing that that achieves is making land directly on top of Bayou.

Sterne takes a deep breath and cowers behind the railings, hoping that the other three Careers don't try to come after him.

"He's right there, Cal, we've gotta go after him."

"We don't have to go after anybody, _Shad_. It's clear we're not going to get him right now."

Pause. "Besides, who cares about the boy from District 5? He's of no threat to us now."

"But—"

"Calista is right. And we left the Cornucopia unprotected. Who knows if there's even still supplies in it?"

Their conversation is interrupted by the sound of five cannons being fired. Five booms. Five deaths.

And Sterne is not one of them. If he has any say about it, he never will be.

_Shad Marcum, 18_

_District 1 Male_

"I cannot believe we let the boy from 5 go," Shad says angrily as the five Careers make the shameful trek back to the Cornucopia, completely empty-handed.

"We've told you a thousand times, Shad," Calista says impatiently. "5 is one of the smallest threats in this arena."

"So? He still has to die for me to win," Ottilie says. Both she and Bayou are soaked to the bone, and the warm weather doesn't seem to be drying them off very well.

Shad is happy to know that Ottilie agrees with him, but at the same time, he is disappointed in her. He thought she would actually get something done, like, oh, killing the boy from 5? Or even getting a kill in the Bloodbath?

Well, Shad isn't sure if he should voice that bit. After all, his kill is only a shared one—the boy from 6, Lark, or something. He aided Calista and Scoria in beating the head in of that boy. Well, Shad hit the final blow, of course. When he gets out of this arena, he knows that he will be credited with that kill, and him only.

"And, there are certainly smaller threats than him," Shad says matter-of-factly. "How about those little girls?"

"Those "little girls" already have one more kill to their name than you do, Shad," Calista says annoyedly.

"What?!" Shad yells. "The oldest one of those girls is _fourteen_, Calista. I have a full foot on the tallest one of those girls."

"So? I watched the girl from 11 slam the boy from 8 against the Cornucopia with enough force to do his head in," Calista says, shrugging.

"What?!" Ottilie yells this time. "The _girl from 11_ got the boy from 8?"

"Yeah," Calista answers, looking at Ottilie strangely.

"Why does it matter who killed who?" says Scoria tiredly. "They're dead. Get over it."

"_I_ was—wanted to kill the boy from 8!" Ottilie cries.

Even Shad looks at her oddly. "Why?" Calista asks.

"I—er, I—I just wanted to, okay?"

Ottilie stalks into the Cornucopia and sits alone in the darkness. Shad watches her go, looking at her with disgust. Wanting to kill someone in particular is ridiculous, frivolous, and often gets tributes killed. Shad is smarter than that. He is much smarter than Ottilie, and he knows how to play this game.

If he didn't, what would he be?

"We need to get a lay of this place," Calista says, taking a seat on a crate. "We saw a fair amount while we were chasing the boy from 5, but everything south of us is unknown."

"I can't find any food in these crates," Bayou blurts nervously. "There's none in the backpacks either."

"What?" Calista says urgently. "But there's no vegetation here that we can eat."

"Maybe we were robbed," Ottilie says snidely from the back of the Cornucopia.

"Calista," Scoria says.

"What?"

"Look around us. There's no vegetation, but there's restaurants and food stands all over the place."

All three of the Careers with a clear view the arena and, sure enough, a food stand is not ten feet from the Cornucopia.

Shad walks up to it and opens the freezer. Buried within several bags of ice sit various types of frozen treats. He digs around it in for a moment before producing a popsicle stick wrapped in plastic. The picture on it indicates that the shape of the treat is some sort of…mouse, maybe? It seems reminiscent of the headbands everyone was wearing.

"Well?" Calista says.

"What? I'm not going to try it," Shad says defensively, putting the treat down on the cart. "It could be poisoned!"

"Ugh, dramatic much?" Calista says annoyedly.

"I'll try it," Bayou suddenly volunteers. He takes the treat and removes the wrapper.

The other Careers, including Ottilie, watch intently as he takes a bite of the chocolate-covered ice cream. Shad does his best to watch with his usual aloof sort of interest.

After a moment, Bayou swallows. He shrugs and says, "It's ice cream. Don' know what else ya expected."

"Well, that's a relief," Calista says. "Now, as I was saying before, we need to get a lay of the land. I say that in the morning, we should send out a team to explore the arena." She eyes Shad. "And, yes, kill any tributes you come across."

"The little girls are over there," Scoria says, pointing toward Tomorrowland. "I believe the girls from 5 and 10, as well as my District partner went down there." She gestures directly south of the Cornucopia.

"Yes, good," Calista says. "Bayou, do you want to go?"

Bayou swallows and says, "Er…sure?"

"Alright," Calista says. "Shad, why don't you join him?"

Shad glares at her. "No, I don't think I will."

"Shad, don't you want to get kills? You're not going to get anything by hanging out around the Cornucopia all day," Calista says.

Shad knows that she is trying to manipulate him, yet she makes a very convincing argument. He _does_ want to get more kills. He needs to get kills in order to make himself memorable, and in order to get kills, he has to go hunting. "Fine. Whatever."

"Great," Calista says. "Scoria, Ottilie and I will stay here and take stock of the supplies. When do you guys want to meet up again?"

"I dunno," Bayou says. "Like, two days, or somethin'?"

"Shad?"

"Sure, whatever." His eyes dart toward Bayou. He wonders what would happen if he were to kill Bayou. What would he tell Calista when he returned? On the off chance that Calista wins, which is close to zero—hell, it might even be zero—she would see that Shad lied to her.

He shakes his head. Killing off his teammates, no matter how useless or annoying they are, isn't a viable way to win. He wants to be a fan favorite with everyone, not just himself.

The sun has begun its descent from the sky by the time Bayou and Shad set out. They carry nothing but a first aid kit and their weapons; food and water are literally everywhere. Well, everywhere except the Cornucopia.

Shad takes the lead, taking them straight south toward the row of shops that Scoria said several tributes went to. Shad doesn't really care about knowing what the arena looks like. He just wants to go wherever he can that will have tributes in it. The more kills he can wrack up, the better.

It is nearly dark out when they enter a shop, upon the claim that Bayou saw something moving. Eventually, they come to the conclusion that there is not, in fact, something moving inside.

Shad heaves a sigh. It is going to be a long two days.

_Wonder Hammerfort, 12_

_District 2 Male_

The Careers are outside.

At least, some of the Careers are. He can hear their voices, one of them yelling at the other. Wonder will admit that hiding in practically plain view of the Cornucopia wasn't his best idea, but he was so desperate to get out of the Bloodbath before Navarro could follow him. And now he's here. Cowering in a…hat shop?

There are windows above his head, which was, again, not his best decision. Hiding beside the door, which is wide open, just below large windows, is really a terrible idea.

But Wonder is stuck here, and he should be okay as long as the Careers don't spot him. If they do…well, he's as good as dead. There's only one entrance to this hat shop, meaning that there is also only one exit.

"God, I can't believe Calista made me come with you," one of the Career says. "Why couldn't Ottilie have come with me instead? Or Scoria? Hell, I'd take Calista. At least she's actually capable of doing anything."

"…yeah."

"Ugh, what do you know, anyway? I mean, that ridiculous accent and poor grammar and everything."

"…um, yeah."

"Come on, let's head over to Adventureplace or whatever it's called. I bet there's some tributes out there."

"Adventureland."

"Whatever."

Two pairs of footsteps echo in the quiet night as the Careers go back the way they came. Wonder finally opens his eyes and stretches out his legs. He peers out of the open door and sees the retreating backs of the boys from 1 and 4, both carrying weapons and backpacks.

Wonder didn't get very lucky with supplies. He has nothing but a small dagger that he barely knows how to use. No food, no water, no first aid, no nothing. If it comes down to a battle of survival, Wonder is sitting ducks.

Quietly, he gets to his feet and looks out onto the street. Way down the lane, at the Cornucopia in front of the castle, he can see someone sitting on a crate, back turned to him. He takes this as his chance; he dashes out of the hat shop and across the road. He ducks into the large store on the corner and finds himself in a darkened emporium of merchandise.

The place is dark and crowded with shelves of clothes and keepsakes. He pauses to examine a few rows of snow globes that feature the castle behind the Cornucopia. Below that sits groups of picture frames with stock photos of happy people wandering around the arena. Below the picture slot, it says in loopy writing, _My Disney Vacation, One-Hundredth, Fifty-Third Hunger Games!_

Wonder picks one of them up. Why would a family be in this place, much less parading around happily? He notes that all four family members are wearing the same ear headband that all of the tributes had.

He bumps into a rack of shirts with the word _Disneyland_ written on them in some form or fashion. The sign on top of the rack marks them as _Disney Maternity Shirts! $39.99 USD!_

Wonder has never seen that symbol before, but if it has anything to do with currency, this place sells some seriously overpriced shirts.

If Wonder looks straight north, he can see through the entire building, baring racks of merchandise and tables in the way.

He moves toward the checkout counters and examines the bags of snacks hanging beside the cash registers. He gingerly picks one up and reads the title.

_Mickey Pretzels_ is emblazoned at the top of the plastic bag, above a window inside which shows strangely-shaped hard pretzels. Wonder glances around and opens the bag as quietly as possible.

As he pops a few of the pretzels into his mouth, he notices the price tag above the bag. _$11.99 USD_. Again with things being overpriced. Like, they're pretzels, but they're not _good_ pretzels.

Wonder looks around in hopes of finding an alcove that he can sleep in without being easily seen, but his search is interrupted by the sound of anthem blaring through the arena.

He dashes over to one of the windows and peers out at the sky.

The first face is that of the boy from District 3. Darwin, Wonder is pretty sure his name was.

The second is the girl from District 6. Wonder remembers her well; the District 12 transplant with a history of the girl from said District. He looks at her face and wonders how she died and if the girl from District 12 was there.

Once her face disappears, she is replaced by her District partner. Wonder can't remember much about him; he's pretty sure his parents were murdered, so he at least had something in common with Wonder. He had a dark history, but Wonder hopes that it affected him less than it still affects Wonder.

The little girl from District 8 appears next. Wonder remembers seeing her break her arm in training.

At last, the face of Navarro Lune hangs above Wonder's head. He is, in theory, the last person that Wonder needed to die. Yoldan already got what was coming to him. His mother…well, his mother is probably out there somewhere. But those reminders, those that remained to remind Wonder of his past…they're all gone.

Navarro may not have played a part in Wonder's history, but he certainly amplified it. But he's dead, and Wonder's not.

Wonder returns to the search for a place to sleep, feeling exponentially safer now that he knows Navarro isn't out there hunting for him.

Finally, he finds a disguised door to a store room, which he has to wrestle open. He finds a stuffed…whale, maybe? That he uses as a pillow, and retrieves a large sweatshirt to use as a blanket. His white shirt with a mountain that is eerily reminiscent of the one outside is great and all, but isn't warm in the slightest.

It isn't really comfortable, per se, but it feels almost safe. And almost safe is about as good as it's going to get in the Hunger Games.

**A/N: I really wanted to have started the Games before the one-year anniversary of this story, but at least I only missed it by like a week.**

**Anyways, there's two things about this arena I need to clear up: one, Galaxy's Edge won't be included in this arena. The problem is that I've never seen Galaxy's Edge in person, while the rest of the park I have. And I started planning this story before Galaxy's Edge opened and it just isn't going to work. So Galaxy's Edge is cut. Two, I will be taking some creative liberties with this. Like, I already remapped the route the old Peoplemover takes. So, everything won't be exactly like its real-life counterpart.**

**1\. Saddest death?**

**2\. Least sad death?**

**3\. Most surprising death?**

**4\. Most surprising killer?**

**EULOGIES:**

**24****th**** Place – Mercury Harrigan, District 7 Male. Throat slit and chest stabbed by Larch Tyre (D6M).**

**So, I'm not sure if anyone knows this, but Mercury and Liesel actually belong to one of my real-life friends. She has an actual account on here that she submits under, but reading my stories is pretty much all she does with it. Anyways, Mercury was a really cool character to explore. His past of abuse was different and more calculated than the usual kind of abused kids you see in SYOTs. One of the best parts of writing him was getting to pull him out of his shell and give him some closure. He didn't die happy, but I don't think he died unfulfilled.**

**23****rd**** Place – Larch Tyre, District 6 Male. Head bashed in with glow wands and bubble makers by Calista Abbey (D1F), Shad Marcum (D1M), and Scoria Primer (D2F).**

**Larch was a bit of enigma to me. He had a kind of barebones form, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I don't think it did Larch any favors. He was a fine character, with an interesting backstory, but he just faded into the background so easily. I never really felt like I knew what to do with Larch. I was able to fulfill his submitter's wish of him getting a kill before he died, however.**

**22****nd**** Place – Lyndie Franklin, District 8 Female. Stabbed in the forehead by Navarro Lune (D8M).**

**Oh, Lyndie. What do I even say about you? Well, for starters, I loved you. Exploring your inner turmoil over your choices was a delight, and I have never written a religious character like her before either. Lyndie was a new experience for me in many ways, and that is one of the reasons I love her as much as I do. She was realistic for a twelve-year-old: scared in the way she should be, and acting accordingly. She didn't want to die so young, but ultimately, it came back to bite her.**

**21****st**** Place – Jayce Dotter, District 6 Female. Stabbed in the back by Liesel Leenheer (D5F). **

**Jayce and Ishtar were incredible characters to write. They had such an interesting dynamic, and the change between Ishtar's introduction and Jayce's was really fun to write. Getting to see how Ishtar reacted to Jayce having moved on was an especially cool part of them. Jayce herself is probably the stronger of two, in some ways, but she crossed paths with an angry Liesel and this is where she falls because of it. **

**20****th**** Place – Navarro Lune, District 8 Male. Head slammed against the Cornucopia by Ashe Illyrian (D11F).**

**Originally, Navarro's death was supposed to be more of team effort between Ashe and Lana. But as I was writing Ashe's POV, it just became Ashe killing a bitch. Because that is what Navarro was; he was insane, bloodthirsty, cruel and overconfident. It was a recipe for disaster. Navarro did manage two kills before his timely demise, when he pissed off someone he didn't consider a threat. Ottilie didn't even get the killing blow.**

**19****th**** Place – Darwin Abner, District 3 Male. Bled out from a stab wound inflicted by Navarro Lune (D8M).**

**Darwin's entire death scene was based off of something I wrote in my phone notes in the middle of the night. It reads "The boy with so much to say would not die without being heard." I thought it sounded cool, and decided to apply it to Darwin. Darwin himself was really fun to write; he and Mercury contrasted each other so well, with Sterne in the middle of them. I always like characters who talk a lot, and Darwin is no different. I'll miss writing him, but I'm sure Sterne will miss him even more.**

**ALLIANCES:**

_**We're Still Extremely Volatile This Year: **_**Shad (D1M), Calista (D1F), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M), Ottilie (D4F)**

_**Flower Power: **_**Lana (D3F), Eris (D7F), Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)**

_**Disaster Lesbians: **_**Liesel (D5F), Tam (D10F)**

_**For Peace of Mind: **_**Everett (D9M), Geo (D12M)**

_**Sad Lesbian: **_**Ishtar (D12F)**

_**Oh. Fuck:**_** Sterne (D5M)**

_**Where Even **_**Is **_**He?: **_**Afandina (D10M)**

_**Overpriced Maternity Shirts: **_**Wonder (D2M)**

_**Didn't Even Get a Kill: **_**Quinn (D11M)**

**KILL COUNT:**

**Shad: 1 (Larch)**

**Calista: 1 (Larch)**

**Scoria: 1 (Larch)**

**Larch (deceased): 1 (Mercury)**

**Navarro (deceased): 2 (Lyndie, Darwin)**

**Ashe: 1 (Navarro)**

**I will soon be back with day 2, hopefully within a few days if I'm lucky.**

**-Amanda**


	34. Memento Mori

_**TW: Suicide**_

_Bayou Hacksom, 18_

_District 4 Male_

Bayou isn't sure how he's going to survive another full day of this.

Shad is, to put it simply, insufferable.

You would think that in the Hunger Games, Shad would understand the need to be quiet. But no. Oh, no, Shad will not shut up.

All night, as the pair wandered through arena, Shad was talking—no, bitching about Panem-knows-what. How much he hates Calista. How much better he is than the other Careers. How he should totally be the leader. How Bayou is a completely useless asset and it would make sense to through him into the lake.

Bayou doesn't have the heart to tell him that he wouldn't even drown.

So here they are, trekking toward an extravagant-yet-run-down mansion in the small hours of the morning, Shad screeching his annoyances to the world.

"Where are we going, anyway?" Shad says, looking at Bayou who has continued to be a few steps ahead of him all night.

They already saw almost the entire area. They explored the tree house, checked out the shops, looked around the river boats, and investigated the tan mountain with the minecarts. Hell, they even checked the ship that Sterne jumped onto yesterday, and found both empty.

Leaving the only part still to be examined this mansion.

Bayou will admit: he intentionally put it off until daylight. What can he say? The place just exudes sketchy vibes.

The sign posted on the wrought iron gates reads, "The Haunted Mansion". Below that, it says "Wait Time: 0 Minutes".

"Come on," Bayou says, starting up the winding path to the mansion. He pauses after a moment and glances over his shoulder. "Shad."

"I'm coming, I'm coming."

The path is narrow but well-kept. It winds through the slightly-overgrown garden surrounding the mansion. It all seems fine until the pair pass by a row of graves, some more readable than others.

The most obvious one reads, "Master Gracey, laid to rest. No mourning please, at his request".

"Master Gracey?" Bayou reads aloud. "Who's that?"

"Who cares?" Shad says impatiently. "Let's just check the house and get back to looking for tributes."

They continue up the path until they reach the porch, where the wide-open doors funnel them inside.

And the strangest thing happens: the doors slam shut behind them. It leaves them standing in small room with a chandelier hanging over their heads. Bayou approaches one of the double doors on the walls and tries to pry it open, but it doesn't budge.

A garbled voice begins to speak to them, making both boys jump in surprise. Bayou listens intently, but it is far too garbled to be understood.

Suddenly, the doors on the wall furthest from where they came in open wide.

"Enter, if you dare," says the voice.

Bayou looks around uncertainly and steps into the room. He glances over his shoulder. "Shad? Come on."

"I'm not going in there," Shad says firmly. "It could be dangerous."

"You didn't seem ta have a problem with the graves outside, so get in here," Bayou answers, crossing his arms. He glances around the room; the ceiling is fairly high, and the walls are decorated with various paintings of regal-looking men.

"Time to step all of the way in, please," says the voice in the ceiling, which prompts Shad to dash into the room beside Bayou. "Make room for everyone, and remember…there's no turning back."

"Wait!" Shad shouts, but the doors slide closed, trapping the pair inside.

Bayou take a deep breath and tries to stay calm. He's never really been one for enclosed spaces, especially not under these circumstances.

"Our tour begins here, in this gallery," the voice continues. "Here, you can see paintings of some of our guests…as they appeared in their lives."

Suddenly, the walls appear to get longer, as if the floor itself is sinking into the ground.

"Oh, no," Shad says urgently. "We're going down. Why are we going down?"

"Shush!" Bayou says. "I'm trying to figure out what he's saying."

"Now, ask yourself…is this haunted room _actually_ stretching? Or is it your imagination?"

Bayou takes another deep breath.

"And now, I serve you this dismaying observation…this chamber has no windows, and no doors."

"Oh my God, he's right!" Shad says. "We have to find a way out of here. This is a trap!"

"Calm down," Bayou says, glaring at Shad. "I thought you was supposed to be tougher than this."

Shad huffs. "I_ am _tougher than this! I just don't want to die to a haunted mansion, okay?"

"And this offers you a chilling challenge…to find a way out!" The voice then lets out a cackle, making both Bayou and Shad flinch in fear.

"Of course…" the voice continues slowly. "There's always my way."

Lightning arcs across the ceiling, revealing a body hanging by its neck from the rafters. It sways slightly, as if being blown upon by a small wind.

Both Bayou and Shad let out ear-splitting screams at the sight of it. "This is not how I'm supposed to die!" Shad yells. He rounds Bayou. "And you! If you get both of us killed with your—your—your silly haunted house trick, I'll kill you!"

"No, no, we're gonna be fine," Bayou says in a shaky voice. He chooses to ignore the redundancy of Shad's statement.

The room goes dark and silent. Bayou and Shad glance at each other before Bayou says, "What now?"

The lights snap back on, and a wall panel to their right slides open. They look at each other and sigh in relief as they carefully make their way into the hallway.

Painted faces stare at them as they creep down the carpeted corridors: their eyes follow them as they walk, and as Bayou watches, the paintings themselves morph into different figures. A woman who was previously smiling now screams in terror. A man on a house becomes a skeleton before their eyes.

"Let's hurry through this part," Bayou says, and Shad, for once, doesn't disagree.

At the end of the hallway stands some kind of loading zone. Black vehicles of some sort trundle by on a conveyor belt, appearing from a dark tunnel and then disappearing into a similar one.

The voice speaks to them again, this time warning them not to take flash photos, and to keep their hands, feet and objects in the Doombuggies at all times.

"What in the hell is a "Doombuggy?" Bayou asks as they approach the loading zone.

For a few long moments, the boys simply stand there, watching the Doombuggies go by, unsure of what to do next. Eventually, Shad shakes his head and says, "Get in."

"W-what?"

"You heard the dead man. Get in."

Bayou swallows thickly and climbs into the Doombuggy. He pats the empty space beside him, hoping that Shad will get in as well.

Shad rolls his eyes, but takes a seat anyway.

The voice, now coming from somewhere behind them, warns them that the spirits will not materialize unless they stay seated and watch their children.

"What kind of haunted house _is_ this?" Bayou wonders aloud. When he was about seven, one of his neighbors put together a cheesy haunted house to scare all of the little kids. It was bad, and low budget, but at least it didn't feel like it was leading up to something.

The Doombuggy begins to move up a slope, and suddenly they are plunged into darkness.

They round a corner and are greeted by a skeleton wearing armor and holding a spear. He stands beside a seemingly-endless hallway, which Bayou can see his face in when they pass by. "That's not real," Bayou says quietly. "It's done with mirrors or somethin', right?"

Shad doesn't answer. After his freak out in the suicide room, he hasn't seemed very talkative. Bayou is certainly not complaining.

They travel backwards into the next room accompanied by the ominous sounds of slow piano music. Bayou looks over his shoulder, trying to get a view at where they are going in case he needs to jump at a moment's notice.

To his right sits a coffin, covered in overgrown plants. It is placed in front of a darkened window, and something inside seems to be trying to get out.

Suddenly, a knife flies through the air beside Bayou and slams into the gap between the coffin and the lid.

"What did ya do that fer?" Bayou exclaims.

"That thing could have been a mutt, Hacksom. Better safe than sorry."

The sound of someone screaming greets them as they pass through the hallway into the next area. On the same side as the coffin sits a heavy-looking locked door. Something appears to be beating on it from the inside, as if clawing to get out.

Bayou and Shad are frozen as they pass it, hoping that whatever inside can't get out.

More similar doors pass by on either side of the Doombuggy. Various voices and screams are heard from inside them, leading Bayou to hope that is not where they are going to end up.

A large grandfather clock appears to their right. The shadow of a hand seems to be continually passing over it, but when Bayou turns around, there is no one there.

A new voice greets them as the Doombuggy enters the next room. A woman, dressed in a long dress, stands at a table beside a seemingly-floating crystal ball.

Bayou hunches down in his seat, hoping that whenever she notices them, she attacks Shad first.

The woman does not attack, nor does she appear to notice them. They pass by unharmed, but Bayou does not sit up.

And then the voice is back, telling them that the Happy Haunts have heard their sympathetic vibrations, and are materializes to celebrate. The next room features this party: specters dressed in formal yet ripped clothes, dancing in circles through a dilapidated ballroom. Organ music accompanies their waltz.

They pass into what appears to be an attic, filled to the brim with useless junk and boxes of storage. Bayou looks at Shad, trying to gauge his reaction. After all, this room doesn't seem very haunted. He's starting to think maybe this isn't a trap after all, and simply some strange form of entertainment.

A picture of a woman wearing a wedding dress morphs into a skeleton as they pass by, which tells Bayou that they are not out of the woods yet. The rest of their journey may have been safe, but the end is still yet to come.

Bayou notices more piano music and the sound of a woman singing. As they pass the piano, he notes that a shadow appears to be playing it, not a real man.

The ghost of a woman wearing a wedding dress appears up ahead. She appears to be holding a hatchet, which makes Bayou duck down even more in his seat.

Suddenly, the woman lobs the hatchet at their Doombuggy. It seems to be headed squarely for Shad's head before he unexpectedly leaps to the sound and disappears into the darkness.

The Doombuggies stop moving, and voice behind him says, "Your tour will continue once we sort out some…technical difficulties.

Bayou leans over the side of the Doombuggy, hoping that Shad is simply laying on the floor. But he finds him nowhere to be found, and when he looks up, the ghost bride has disappeared as well.

"Oh my God," Bayou says quietly. "Shad? Shad?"

When Shad does not answer his calls, and does not reappear, he expects to hear the sound of cannon any second. But the room has gone eerily quiet; the piano music has ceased, and the singing woman has gone silent.

Bayou carefully steps out of the Doombuggy. He finds himself standing on some kind of track, which make it hard to regain his footing. "Shad?" he calls uncertainly, stepping onto the floor of the attic. "S-shad?"

The sound of someone screaming answers his calls: he whirls around to find the ghost bride hacking away at Shad's legs, holding a new hatchet in her hands. "SHAD!" Bayou shouts, rushing forward. He frantically takes out a spear and attempts to plunge it into the ghost's back, but it simply passes through her skin.

"Bayou," Shad says, face pale.

Bayou does the only thing he can think of: he grabs Shad by the shoulders and runs.

He wraps Shad's arm around his shoulder and drags him around the bend. They pass a man holding a hat box and enter a large, dark room. As Bayou runs down the incline into the room proper, he realizes that it is a graveyard.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, the sight of the ghost bride, bloody hatchet in hand chasing after them spurs Bayou to move faster.

He rushes by a man holding a lantern, standing beside an emaciated dog, and suddenly trips over a gravestone. Both him and Shad go flying: Shad lands behind a separate headstone a few feet away, and Bayou lays disoriented on the ground.

As he stumbles to his feet, his eyes catch on the words on the gravestone he tripped over.

_Memento Mori_.

It's a saying he has heard before; oddly enough, from the same neighbor that made the haunted house. That neighbor spoke some language he called "Latin", and would teach the Backwater kids some of the sayings. Marjorie had once dragged Bayou over to his house to ask him what "Memento Mori" meant, and man's answer was that it was too dark for children as young as they were.

Bayou staggers a few feet toward Shad, who appears to be knocked out cold. He spots the ghost bride searching through the graveyard for them, and makes a break for the exit.

He runs past a whole ghost band and several mausoleums without giving them much note. A hatchet goes flying past his head, embedding itself in the Doombuggy to his right. He rushes through a stone arch and down a long, straight hallway covered in mirrors.

The ghost bride is mere feet away from him now, almost close enough to touch him. "Come on, Shad! Wake up," Bayou pleads, racing past what he assumes is an unloading zone and up another conveyor belt.

The spectral hand of the ghost bride closes around the hood his sweatshirt as he bursts into the daylight. A hatchet swipes across his back, leaving a shallow cut in its wake, and the ghost is gone.

_Ishtar Marmaduke, 18_

_District 12 Female_

Ishtar thought she knew what pain felt like. The pain of watching Jayce leave. The pain of learning Jayce no longer loved her. The pain of anything that involved the girl that she…loves? Used to love? Ishtar simply doesn't know anymore.

But this.

This is a thousand times worse.

In the confusion of the Bloodbath, the desperate grab for supplies, for Jayce, for a place to go, she lost her.

She lost the only person who ever cared. The only person who ever made her feel special, feel noticed, feel important.

She lost her.

The sight of that heinous katana in Jayce's back, the blood that pooled on the ground around her, and the girl from 5 in the center of it all.

Ishtar can't stand the mere thought of Liesel Leenheer. The girl that destroyed Ishtar's only chance at love, at salvation, at _mattering_ to someone for once in her life.

It makes Ishtar want to take everything that Liesel loves from her. What better place to start than Tamarah Colt?

She wants to make Liesel feel some sliver of the pain she feels now. The agony of knowing that Jayce is gone—that she isn't just in District 6, biding her time until they can be together again. No, that Jayce is really, truly dead, and there is nothing that Ishtar can do about it.

She wants Liesel to suffer like this. Killing Liesel is not enough; Liesel has to live with the pain before she dies.

Which is why Ishtar has been scouring the arena in search of them. She will sniff every inch of this Panem-forsaken place if she must; she will find Liesel, and she will make her pay.

She has been wandering around the areas called Adventureland and Frontierland all morning. It has given her a few pieces of knowledge:

One. Don't go in the mansion.

Two. Shad Marcum will be of no threat to anyone for quite some time.

Although, when the boys from 1 and 4 came through the area, she did hide. It wasted precious time, in which someone else could be killing Tamarah and Liesel, but what she supposed to do? Hold up a big sign that says, "Come Kill Me"?

Even then, all she had to do was crouch behind a bench until they left the mansion covered in blood and sweat.

She can still see the trail of vermillion that indicates that Bayou dragged Shad back to the Cornucopia. She steps gingerly over it as she makes her way over to the river boat boarding area. The sign calls it The Jungle Cruise, which doesn't make a lot of sense, since they are clearly not in a jungle. Although, Ishtar doesn't really know where they are.

A large tree with wooden pathways wrapping around looms ahead. It is the one place in this area she hasn't yet checked, save for the full route of the Jungle Cruise and the expanse of the temple behind the treehouse.

The sign above the entrance brands this place as "Tarzan's Treehouse". Ishtar doesn't know what a Tarzan is, or presumably who, but none of the place is enclosed, so she has confidence that they will not try to kill her.

In the distance, Ishtar can hear bongo music. She pauses before ascending the first staircase, trying to find the source of it. She can't imagine it's hostile, but better safe than sorry.

After a moment, she starts up the staircase, which quickly turns into a spiral-of-sorts around the first tree. At different vantage points, she can see other buildings in the area. Once she reaches the end of the staircases, she heads across a wooden bridge, which takes her to the treehouse proper.

Across the bridge is small, open-air house. Below her, she can see a miniature waterfall, and on the other end of the house hangs a bell. Beside the bell is a book that appears to be made entirely from plastic.

Ishtar reaches out and touches it; surely enough, the book is cold to the touch, and she can't turn the page.

With a look of confusion on her face, she turns to the right and heads up the next staircase.

The bongo music becomes louder, but now it is accompanied by a different sound: something almost like growling. It creates an uncomfortable sense of foreboding as Ishtar scales the stairs.

Ishtar rounds the bend and sees something that makes her stop clean in her tracks.

Up ahead, in an absolutely trashed covered outcropping, stands a large, spotted cat of some sort. Ishtar has never seen anything like it, but she doubts that it is friendly.

She takes a tentative step forward, glad to at least know where the growling was coming from.

Carefully, she removes a small knife from her pocket and creeps forward. The cat isn't looking at her; instead, it seems fascinated by some unseen point in the distance, and Ishtar would like to keep it that way.

Her foot lands on a floorboard that creaks loudly. The cat whips its head around, meeting its surprisingly expressive eyes with Ishtar's.

Without any warning, the cat springs forward, claws poised to kill.

Ishtar starts to madly swing her knife, feeling the creature's claws dig into her shoulder and pull. She cries out in pain, at last managing to stab the foul beast in the side.

The cat whimpers in pain and drops to the ground as Ishtar stabs it again and again. Eventually, it stops moving, but its claws have done their job.

Gritting her teeth, Ishtar lifts the corpse up to the railing and pushes it over. It lands a few moments later with sickening sort of _squish_, and Ishtar keeps going without looking down.

She takes a deep breath and glances skyward, hoping for some bandages or medicine or, like, a cotton ball. Anything to show that the Capitolites are watching and want to help.

When nothing drops from the sky, she continues forward, moving straight down another wooden bridge, taking careful steps. Whatever the cat was looking at might be a real thing—or a real tribute.

Below her, she notices a trail of blood drops leading in the direction she is heading. It only reinforces her idea that the cat was on watch.

At the end of the bridge is another plastic book sitting on an equally plastic barrel. Ishtar passes by it with little pause.

She goes down a set of stairs this time, and spots something curious. The corpse of a dead gorilla sits inside the thatched-roof hut. There is netting all over the floor, as well as puddles of blood.

Ishtar takes out her knife again and steps into the hut. It is dark inside, the only light coming from a strange sort of fire. She examines it closer and realizes that it isn't fire at all—it is simply red and orange light, in a flame grate. _That's odd_, she thinks.

And then she turns around and finds herself face-to-face with Afandina Hariri. However, it takes a moment to realize who he is, because his face is covered in blood and bruises.

"Hi," he says in a small voice.

Ishtar gapes at him. After a moment, she surveys his body, finding his right shirt sleeve is ripped clean off, and some sort of cloth has been tied around his shoulder which is slowly turning red. His left is black and his right is ringed with black and blue. His legs appear to be fine; both denim pant legs are still intact, and the only thing wrong with his shoes is that they're now partially red.

"Oh my God," Ishtar says quietly.

"Did you kill the cat?" Afandina asks after a moment. "It was prowling around outside and making it so I couldn't get out."

"Yeah," Ishtar says, still baffled by this situation. "It's dead."

"Oh. Good," Afandina says. "You don't happen to have any, like, extra cloth, do you? I need to change the bandages on my shoulder and I don't have anything left."

"No," Ishtar says, almost regrettably. "What happened to you?"

"Well…" Afandina says, followed by a short pause. "I was coming up to…set up camp, and ran into that jaguar-thing. I almost killed it, but it got me in the shoulder, and then the monkeys showed up…" He stares off into space for a moment.

"Wait, monkeys? Like, plural?" Ishtar asks, looking around as if she could miss the body of a whole-ass gorilla.

"Oh…the other one is down the path," Afandina says quietly. "Those things can pack a punch. I managed to get them both down, but as you can see…they, uh, did a number on me. But I'm still alive! I'm gonna be f-fine."

Ishtar looks at him dubiously. "For some reason, I don't believe that."

She makes to leave, but Afandina calls out to her, "Wait! Don't go. I don't want to die alone."

"I thought you said you'd be fine," Ishtar says, back still turned to him.

"I—er—I, uh," Afandina stammers before he seems to regain his words. "We can be allies. Once I'm all better, I'll have a lot more to bring to the table."

"Yeah, like what?"

"I—I can fight. I'm intelligent. I'm clever—I've never lost a game of cards before," Afandina brags, puffing out his chest.

Ishtar turns to him. She sighs and says, "I'm out for revenge. Liesel Leenheer killed the love of my life, and I want payback."

"I can help with that," Afandina says. "Besides, maybe our team-up will garner both of us some sponsors, eh?"

As if to accentuate his point, the sound of sonar begins to play, drowning out the bongo music, and Ishtar watches as a small parachute makes its way through the tree cover.

Ishtar pulls it down from the branch it stuck on and opens the top. Inside sit two fresh rolls of white bandages and a tiny vial of anti-infection medicine. After a short moment of consideration, Ishtar offers the medicine and one roll of bandages to Afandina. "…welcome to the team."

_Eris Rowan, 13_

_District 7 Female_

Eris is glad to be back on solid ground.

That rickety, old, crumbling track was great and all, but now that she and Lana have gone out looking for food, she feels a thousand times better. Not "safe", per se, but better.

You could make the argument that she is less safe now, roaming around the arena in broad daylight, but Eris has already seen that the Careers are down for the count after the boys from 1 and 4 came back. They are the least of her worries right now.

"There's some bags of something up by the check-out counters," Lana says, startling Eris from her thoughts.

They are currently searching through some sort of store. The walls are painted purple and green, and there are images of strange, alien-ish figures all over the place. All of the shelves are made from what look like repurposed rockets, excluding the check-out counters. Those look like someone turned a train upside down and covered it in lilac paint.

"This place is so weird," Eris comments as they make their way through the shelves. The merchandise ranges from ear headbands to t-shirts to light-up sticks. Eris picks up one of the aforementioned sticks and clicks the button the handle. The blade lights up and emits _vroom_ sounds. Eris quickly turns it off and replaces it in its spot.

"Hey, Eris!" Lana says. "Come over here. I think I found some food."

So far, the only they have found is ice cream and drinks. There are plenty of food carts all over the area that are filled with popsicles and water bottles, but those will not tide them over for the next few weeks.

"What is it?" Eris asks, walking up to Lana's shoulder.

"There's some pretzels, and chips, and whatever this is." Lana lifts up a clear, bright-yellow plastic bag that seems to be filled with popcorn of some sort. The bag is shaped like a head with two circles on top. It reminds Eris of her headband.

Eris kneels down beside Lana and says, "What should we take?"

"I mean, none of it is very healthy," Lana answers. "but we'll starve if we don't take something, so…the popcorn bags?"

"Works for me," Eris says with a shrug. She takes two of them off of the hooks, once dark blue and the other red, and slings them over her shoulder. "Alright, let's go. Maybe there's a restaurant around here or something."

The pair make their way back through the aisles of green alien merchandise and exit the store.

"Heya!"

Lana and Eris freeze and glance at each other. Eris discreetly begins to look around, trying to find the source of the greeting.

That's when she sees it:

A trashcan.

An inconspicuous trashcan, white and purple in color and slowly rolling toward them as if propelled by wheels. It appears to be made of metal, and the word on the flap reads "PUSH".

"Um," Eris says uncertainly. She takes a step toward the trashcan, hearing a strange noise coming from inside it. A metallic sort of sound, like two knives being rubbed together.

"Heya, I'm Push! You guys must be some of the tributes," the trashcan says. No part of it seems to be moving when it speaks, almost as if someone is hiding inside and trying to hold a conversation with them.

"Um," Lana says, equally as uncertain. "What in the…"

"How are things today?" Push asks them congenially.

Neither girl says anything.

"Gosh, you guys aren't very talkative, are you?" Push says, trundling closer to them.

Lana and Eris back up.

"Come on, I just wanna chat! Jeez, no one around here wants to talk a guy like me," Push commiserates, rolling back and forth as if it is pacing. "Help a guy out, maybe?"

"Um," Lana says again. "We're gonna…go now. It was nice to…er, meet you, ehm, Push."

"Ah, come on, you guys can stay for a bit!" Push says loudly as Lana grabs Eris's hand and starts to pull her away. "I don't wanna hurt you! I just want someone to talk to! I'm a lonely ol' trashcan!"

Lana keeps moving.

"Wait!" Push cries, starting to roll faster.

"Go on, Lana, run," Eris says in a low voice. "It's catching up."

"STOP!" Push roars, rocketing toward them with surprising speed. It stops in front of them, effectively cutting off their path to the track. "Come onnn," Push whines. "Stay for a little while!"

"Eris, get behind me," Lana commands.

"What? No!" Eris exclaims, standing her ground.

Push's flap opens and Eris figures out where the noise was coming from. The sound gets louder as Push gets closer to them, and Eris sees the spinning blades inside of him.

"Lana, run!" Eris shouts. "It's going to grind us up!"

"What?" Lana cries, but she runs anyway.

Push chases them back into the gift shop. They pass the shelf with the light up sticks on it, and Eris grabs one. She turns it on and jams it into Push's mouth, hoping to stop the blades.

Instead, Push gobbles it up and keeps going.

"Eris, through here!" Lana cries, pointing to a doorway that leads to a long hallway. "There's gotta be an exit somewhere down there!"

The pair sprint up the ramp and past several cardboard bins adorned with the image of sunglasses. The hallway comes to an end with several rows of thin, gray doors. At the moment, the doors are closed, and they don't appear to have knobs.

Both Lana and Eris begin to bang on the doors, desperately trying to pull them open as Push passes the sunglasses boxes.

"Come on!" Eris yells. She pushes on the door, and suddenly, all down the row, the doors open. She falls forward onto the floor of a…? There are several lines of seats, with doors at the other end and a metal panel at the front. It doesn't look like anything Eris has ever encountered before, but what about this arena does?

"Eris, come on!" Lana yells, already at the other end of the room. "Get up!"

Eris stumbles to her feet and glances over her shoulder. Push is only a few feet away from her. She takes a deep breath and hurriedly squeezes through the seats.

Push is mere inches from the doorway, but so is Eris. And then every door in the room slams shut.

"NO!" Eris shouts, desperately banging on the metal in front of her. "LANA!"

She sinks into the seat behind her and notices that Push did not make it inside. It is a small blessing.

"Star Tours Flight Fourteen-O-One, you are cleared for departure," a masculine voice says in the ceiling.

"NO!" Eris shouts. "LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! LANA!"

At the front of the cabin, a small screen to the right lights up with the face of some kind of golden man. "Oh, oh no," the golden man says, fidgeting around robotically. "No, no, the captain isn't on board!"

"Initiating auto take off sequence," a metallic-sounding female voice answers.

"No," Eris says, her face draining of color. "No, I can't go anyway! LET ME OUT!"

"No, no, I am _not_ the captain, I am C-3PO!" the golden man, or C-3PO cries in panic.

Eris gets to her feet and climbs over the seat in front of her as the metal panel at the front of the cabin opens to reveal the golden man himself. He sits beside a large, blurry screen which currently shows a docking bay of some sort.

A strange, floating robot holding two orange sticks appears in front of them, as if guiding them somewhere.

Suddenly, Eris feels herself get lifted into the air. "Oh my God," Eris says. "Oh my God, we're flying. We're going somewhere. Oh my God."

"R2-D2, you know I am not programmed to fly one of these things!" the golden man exclaims, looking around at the seats. "I'm just going to turn us around and…"

The cabin starts to move forward, leaving Eris to drop into the seat behind her. However, it only lasts a few seconds before a man in all black, surrounded by soldiers in white armor stop their flight path. "Stop," the man in black commands. "and prepare to be boarded."

Eris freezes and kneels on the ground. She hides behind the back of the seat in front of her, glancing at the doors, expecting for someone to burst in at any second.

"We know you have this rebel spy with you!" the man in black says. The screen to Eris's right lights up with a photo—a photo of Eris.

"No!" Eris yells. "I'm not a rebel spy!"

The cabin begins to move again as the man in black yells something about escaping. Bright orange lasers begin to fire from the front of the ship, and Eris is thrown backwards. Her head bangs against the seat as the cabin rockets backward into some kind of black void. It looks like the night sky.

Flying gray triangles explode and more lasers, this time green, are fired through the air. The ship lurches forward, and Eris is thrown over the seat in front of her. She lands on her head and lays there, dazed. She stares up at the ceiling as the cabin twirls around, making her feel slightly sick.

After a minute or so, she sits back up and looks back to the blurry screen. The ship has finally stopped moving, now seeming to float in an inky, dark expanse of nothingness. A hologram of some sort appears in front of her, saying something about being Princess Leia and needing the survival of the rebel spy.

"I'm not a rebel spy!" Eris repeats, staggering to her feet and climbing back over the seats. "Let me go…"

Something beeps, and the golden man says, "What do you mean, "we're going to be making a slight detour"?" And then Eris is thrown through the air again, landing almost perfectly in a seat behind her. Her head ricochets into the chair's back, making her vision momentarily spin. One of the plastic popcorn bags snaps off of her shoulder and shatters on the ground.

The ship slams to a stop in front of another floating, gray triangle that shoots lasers. They slowly drift through what appears to be a flying battlefield, carefully dodging the various shots and ships careening through the air. Something slams into the front of the ship, leaving little metal bugs crawling all over the windshield.

Eris screams and ducks behind the chairs in front of her.

"It's in the controls!" C-3PO cries in terror as the ship starts to drop.

Eris screams again, holding onto the arms of her chair so hard her knuckles turn white. Something about the fall feels off, but Eris hardly notices. The ground gets steadily closer as they plummet, and Eris continues to scream.

She braces for impact, but they stop mere feet from the ground and right themselves. She breathes a small sight of relief and pulls herself back into her chai.

The ship clips past several flying vehicles as they rage through an enormous city. Eris barely peeks over the top of the chairs, fearing that they may fall any second.

At last the ship comes to a stop on solid ground. The voice in the ceiling commends the captain on getting their spy there safe as the metal panel closes and the golden man disappears.

Eris slowly gets to her feet as the doors open. There's no way any of that was real, right? She didn't really go to space, and isn't really on another planet right now, and—

The sight of Push gnashing its flap on the other end of the ship brings Eris to what reality she is in. It appears that Push is too thick to fit inside the cabin, leaving Eris to slowly creep out the way Lana went.

"Eris!" Lana cries in relief. She gets to her feet, leaving her seat on the floor. "You're okay!"

"Gosh," Eris says, looking around nervously. "I thought I had gone to a different planet."

"What happened in there?" asks Lana uncertainly.

"I don't really know," Eris says tiredly. "Something about a rebel soldier, not being the captain of the ship, and a lot of lasers. Also, I lost one of the popcorn things."

"That's okay," Lana says with a small laugh. "We'll just have to send Ashe and Ainsley to get more."

"There's a way out of here?"

"Yeah," Lana answers. "There's a bend through here, and I can see daylight in the next room."

Eris lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "That's good." She brushes her shirt off and adds, "Let's get out of here."

_Quinn Bayers, 18_

_District 11 Male_

It has been a very, very long day.

The sun is finally beginning to cower behind the horizon, leaving the arena in that period between night and day. The horizon is dark, but the sky is pink. It beats down upon Quinn's back as he searches for a place to set up camp for the night.

If he were to look up, he would see the shadows of stars starting to come out of hiding. They dance up there, high in the sky, out of reach. Safe from anyone's hands.

Quinn does not look up.

His eyes are trained on the steadily darkening-arena, searching for not only a safe place to sleep, but the dangers of the other tributes. He has made his way around the back half of the arena and is now stopping in the fantasy fairgrounds or whatever. He doesn't really care what they're called, as long as he doesn't end up sleeping in a plastic elephant.

He glances at his feet as he walks, realizing that he just stepped in blood. Furrowing his brow, Quinn kneels down, wondering whose blood it was and how they died.

Well, he assumes they're dead. None of the tributes he's come across today have seemed injured in the slightest.

He spotted Lana and Eris heading into the terminal with the tracks splitting off it earlier. It's a clever hiding spot; no one ever thinks to look up. Right about now, he wishes that he would have thought of it first.

The Careers remain at the Cornucopia, tending to the boy from District 1's wounds. He isn't quite sure how he got them, but he certainly wouldn't have been passing through magic unicorn carnival land.

As far as he knows, there has yet to be a cannon today, and the anthem should only be a few hours off.

Quinn's stomach rumbles as he passes a well-lit restaurant of some sort. The sign above the door, made of wood and covered in carvings of flowers, reads "The Red Rose Tavern", and the smell coming from inside is practically heavenly.

He glances left, then right, and heads inside. The tavern features many fancy paintings on the walls, and they almost seem to be telling a story.

The place feels slightly cramped, but it adds to the atmosphere. It feels cozy, almost like a home.

Quinn quietly weaves through the tables to the counter. He finds that the menu is printed on the wood, like some kind of very strange engraving. With a puzzled expression on his face, Quinn peers at the words and leans his arms on the countertop.

Suddenly, a ceramic plate full of food drops from the ceiling and lands with a clatter in front of Quinn. He cringes, glancing around to make sure that no one heard it.

In the eerie silence of the dark arena, he hears nothing.

After a moment, Quinn picks up the plate and notes that his elbows were on the words _Beast's Forbidden Burger_. With a shrug, he climbs over the counter and eats his food there.

One part of him says that it could be poisoned. The other argues that there is no food in his backpack, and stands covered in popcorn and ice cream outside. What are they doing there, if they aren't intended to be eaten?

So, he eats the burger. It isn't bad. Actually, it's surprisingly good for food in the Hunger Games.

Once he finishes, he takes the plate into the kitchen. He almost just leaves it on the counter, but realizing he'd rather leave no mark of his presence, he instead picks up a sponge and washes it. He sets it in a cabinet with the rest of the dishes, glad to see that it doesn't stand out.

The arena has gone fully dark when he steps out of the Red Rose Tavern. Light pours from the various store fronts and restaurants around him, which certainly helps. Pleasant but regal music plays everywhere he goes, which is definitely beginning to get on his nerves. There are spotlights on the spinning plastic elephants, which frames them in an eerie way as they spin around and around and around.

Quinn looks around and decides he need to find a place to stay the night. This place seems like some kind of town square; maybe there is an inn he could hide in?

He passes by the carousel and spots someone crouching on the ground up ahead. They seem to be kneeling on the edge of the water that feeds into the giant plastic whale's mouth. Their hands are in the water, and they are clearly looking down.

Quinn slows his pace and gingerly steps further down the pathway. As he approaches, he notes the hair color the tribute—dark brown—and that their ear headband is still on their head. Their shirt is maroon and they are missing on their shoes, which is probably the strangest part of the situation.

After a moment of quiet observation, Quinn realizes that the boy—he's sure it's a boy, he can't remember any female tributes with that short of hair—is seemingly washing his hands in the water. Every few moments, a boat leisurely floats past but the boy doesn't seem to notice.

It would be an easy kill.

Quinn isn't quite sure where the thought came from, but he knows that it is right. It would be simple; push the boy into the water, hold his head underneath the surface, possibly slam it against one of the boats. It would quick, easy—not exactly painless, but it wouldn't take long. If Quinn is going to kill someone in these Games, he'd rather they suffer as little as they have to.

But something stops him.

For some reason, some awful, Panem-forsaken reason, he doesn't move. He simply watches the boy manically scrub his hands into the water for who-knows-how-long. Eventually, the boy gets up and stumbles away without even noticing that Quinn was there.

It leaves him feeling terribly on edge.

He stands there for a long, long time. Completely still. A perfect target for a late-night wandering murderer.

The thing that finally startles him back to the land of the living is a voice.

"Hi, I'm Olaf and I like—"

Olaf never gets to tell anyone what he likes, as Quinn suddenly snaps a knife out of his pocket and throws it at him without looking.

Surprisingly, it hits the mark and impales the small…snowman? The creature makes sputtering noises before its eyes go dim and silence once again reigns over the arena.

Quinn sighs annoyedly and walks over to the roof that the snowman is perched upon. _It was a good shot, at least_, he thinks as he tries to figure out how to the climb the building. After a minute of contemplation, he pulls himself up via the trellis full of flowers on the side of the house and retrieves his knife.

It gives him a good view of the area despite the late-night darkness. He glances upward at the moon, wondering what time it is.

That's when he hears the first explosion.

It makes him jump in surprise and recoil as if his hands were burned. He shuts his eyes, crouching behind the mangled snowman, half-expecting to be blown to bits.

The sound of another explosion bursts through the sky, prompting Quinn to open his eyes and look up.

Large balls of color shoot across the sky above the castle, exploding into blasts of sparkles and falling into nothingness. A garbled, female voice talks slowly in the distance, but Quinn can't quite make out what she is saying. Something about magic and wishes.

Quinn watches, practically transfixed, as the colors continue to shriek across the sky, cracking and banging. He can't quite decide if it's beautiful or terrifying. It certainly isn't anything Quinn has ever witnessed before.

The show lasts several minutes. Once the last crack screams through the arena, the silence that follows feels foreboding. As if something is waiting in the shadows, just out of view, ready to sink its bloodied teeth into Quinn's neck.

Nothing happens. Quiet continues across the arena, the last, distant ring fading into obscurity.

Quinn stands up and dusts off his jeans. He climbs down the roof and continues down the path toward the huge, tan mountain.

As he approaches said mountain, he notices that every few seconds, trains of minecarts go screaming along the tracks that wander through the rocky spires. The sound quickly becomes cumbersome as Quinn follows the path around it.

The area beyond the mountain quickly turns into a formal-looking square of sorts. To his right stands a river and a rustic island.

The island seems like a relatively safe place to spend the night. Quinn heads over to the railing and peers into the water separating it from him. It sloshes around, dark and murky, and likely unforgiving should he get stuck. He considers it and decides it isn't worth it. Besides, there could mutts in those waters, and he isn't in a position to take that kind of risks.

Suddenly, the sound of a loud horn startles him. Up the river, an enormous, elegant boat is slowly making its way toward him. Steam shoots from a stack on the top, which is presumably the thing making all of the racket. It screams again as the boat drifts toward a dock that stands several feet away from Quinn.

It slows to a stop and the plank drops, seemingly without prompting.

Quinn takes a careful step toward it. A boat wouldn't be a bad place to spend the night. Unless someone is watching right now, he doubts anyone would be able to find him. If they did, they likely wouldn't even be able to reach him.

After a quick glance at the surrounding area, Quinn steps onto the boat. He wanders around the lowest deck as the ship sets sail once again, pushing off of the dock on its own and beginning its journey down the river.

He finds an enclosed room with cushioned seating inside and decides that it is as good of a place as any of sleep. There is a door that he can close, and windows on the opposite wall that he could break if he had to. Of course, he'd have to go into the water then, but if he is forced to crawl out of a tiny window to survive, getting wet would be the least of his problems.

The lazy swaying of the boat as it floats, seemingly, in circles around the island makes Quinn feels practically exhausted.

Or maybe it is simply because Quinn has been awake for almost twenty-four hours now. That probably has something to do with it too.

Quinn sits down on the long, cushioned couch and stares off into space. He stills feels slightly shaky from the shock of the explosions in the sky. He's sure that if he had been expecting it, it would have been a non-issue. But the fact that it came out of nowhere, and he had no prior indication that it wasn't going to kill him made it far more terrifying than it should have been.

He lays down on the cushions, using his small backpack as a pillow. It certainly isn't ideal, but he would guess it's some of the best sleeping conditions in the entire arena. Everything here seems to be made of plastic for no discernible reason.

Eventually, he drifts off into a light sleep, the nervousness of needing to move in a split second keeping him from really getting any rest.

**A/N: Yay for long chapters! Seriously though, I did not realize how long it would take to describe entire rides plus fight scenes in one POV. Guess that just means everything is going to be really long from now on. **

**1\. Do you think Bayou and Shad's experience in the mansion together will change their dynamic at all?**

**2\. Is Ishtar agreeing to join Afandina a good move on her part?**

**3\. Do you prefer Lana and Eris together, or Ashe and Ainsley?**

**4\. Which tribute did Quinn run into in Fantasyland?**

**ALLIANCES:**

_**Spooky Scary Skeletons: **_**Shad (D1M), Calista (D1F), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M), Ottilie (D4F)**

_**Flower Power: **_**Lana (D3F), Eris (D7F), Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)**

_**Disaster Lesbians: **_**Liesel (D5F), Tam (D10F)**

_**For Peace of Mind: **_**Everett (D9M), Geo (D12M)**

_**Sad Lesbian + Dead Weight: **_**Afandina (D10M), Ishtar (D12F)**

_**Oh. Fuck:**_** Sterne (D5M)**

_**Overpriced Maternity Shirts: **_**Wonder (D2M)**

_**Killed Olaf: **_**Quinn (D11M)**

**KILL COUNT:**

**Shad: 1 (Larch)**

**Calista: 1 (Larch)**

**Scoria: 1 (Larch)**

**Larch (deceased): 1 (Mercury)**

**Navarro (deceased): 2 (Lyndie, Darwin)**

**Ashe: 1 (Navarro)**

**-Amanda**


End file.
